


Bang Bang

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 911, Aftermath of Violence, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Conversations, Crying, Death, Drama, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, F/F, Fear, Fear of Death, Girls Kissing, Guilt, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Holding Hands, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hugs, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Magic School, Minor Character Death, Police, Screaming, Serious Injuries, Shooting Guns, Spells & Enchantments, Talking, Tears, Thriller, Violence, Weapons, Witch Hunters, Witches, ambulance, hunters are assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Rowena is invited for a guest appearance at a school for witches. What was supposed to be a fun learning experience ends in bloodshed when hunters raid the school.





	1. Applause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is named after the song Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down). And this chapter is named after Lady Gaga's song.

Neither you nor Rowena were fans of witch gatherings, but this was a special occasion. Lucifer was dead; Sam had been kind enough to let the two of you know as soon as it had happened, even emailing a picture after the phone call as proof of the truth of his claims. Rowena no longer had to look over her shoulder every time she dared step outside. House arrest, while it kept her safe, what with all the warding and protective spells cast over your home, wasn't a good option for a witch such as her.

Rowena, fiercely independent thanks to centuries of hardships, loved her freedom.

And now she was, once again, able to enjoy it to the fullest.

Though, despite the devil having kicked the bucket, the trauma he'd inflicted on her remained. While rare, there were still nights she'd wake up covered in sweat, screaming and begging for him to let her go. Random things could still trigger her memories of her skull cracking under the pressure of his shoes slamming into it and flames eating at her still living, still conscious body bit by bit, like rabid beasts tearing her flesh straight off her bones. She would still burst into tears, seemingly for no reason — though you knew she'd had plenty of reason, consciously or not — and cling to you like a child, seeking comfort and protection in your arms.

It would take some time for her to learn to live with her trauma. Maybe it would never go away completely, but it could be dealt with. The journey to recovery would be hard, but it wasn't impossible. A strong and determined girl like Rowena could do it. She just needed to learn how.

As of right now, you couldn't do much to help her, other than providing her comfort, something you'd been doing for over a year now. While it couldn't erase her pain, it had been giving her a feeling of safety, even if it was temporary. She wasn't as afraid when she curled up in your arms and listened to your heartbeat while you whispered words of love and encouragement into her ear.

Now, at the very least, you could reassure her that Lucifer couldn't come after her again — and this time it would be the truth. He was dead. Deceased. Departed. Gone. Six feet under. Pushing daisies. No longer living. No longer _existing._

That was more than enough reason to celebrate.

A former acquaintance of Rowena's, a witch named Agatha Baudelaire, had turned her luxurious mansion into a boarding school for witches. The two of you had run into her at random, in front of a grocery store. Agatha seemed to think Rowena might have been dead for at least a hundred years, thanks to the rumors from both The Men of Letters and The Grand Coven. She wasn't that surprised to see her alive, though; she'd been familiar with Rowena's penchant for survival all those centuries ago. She confessed to never having been convinced of her death, having heard just as many rumors of her living as she'd had of her dying.

As it turned out, Agatha used to be just as wicked than Rowena once was. Then, just as it was the case with Rowena, she'd decided to turn on a new leaf. To make up for everything she'd done, she'd made a school out of her home, to teach young witches the proper way of magic. To teach them to create rather than destroy, to protect rather than kill, to be proud of the power they had rather than crave more.

She admitted to telling her students about Rowena, a fact that had made Rowena both beam with pride and blush with embarrassment. Your pride almost equaled hers. If anyone deserved to be a legend for her strength, power, and sheer will to survive, it was your girlfriend.

Agatha had invited Rowena to her school, saying the students would love a speech from a guest many of whom considered their idol. Rowena promised to think about it, and Agatha nodded, pleased with her answer. She told Rowena her school's doors were always open for her, no matter what. She had apparently owed her a favor and this was her way of repaying it.

Rowena was uncertain about going, having had bad experiences with witches — even if Agatha was nice, and she'd promised the same about her students — but you talked her into saying yes. You were even less social than her, preferring to stay home rather than go outside amongst people you wanted nothing to do with, especially when they were in larger groups.

This, though, was an exception. Not only would you meet other witches, but they actually liked Rowena and wanted to hear what she had to say. After almost a year of pain, she deserved some appreciation, even if it came from strangers. You knew your girl enough to know that she loved praise. Every time you'd give her a compliment or thank her for teaching you a new spell, she would beam. Here she had an opportunity to meet plenty of young witches and be adored by every single one of them. You weren't going to let her miss it.

"You're gonna be great," you said. Walking over to her admiring her tiny, graceful form in the full-length mirror, you hugged her from behind and lowered your chin on her shoulder. Your cheek brushed against hers, and warmth spilled over you from the place where your skin touched hers to the rest of your body. Rowena didn't just have magic — she _was_ magic, every cell in her body, every nerve, every bit of her woven from the finest, richest, most delicate threads of magic.

"Think I don't know that?" she asked with a cocky grin.

Despite her attempts to appear nonchalant, you knew better. You could see uncertainty creeping underneath her wide smile and happy eyes. The problem weren't her accomplishments; you knew better than anyone that Rowena could spend hours talking about the great things she'd done, from simple, almost human manipulations to spells not many witches would even think of, let alone actually invent. But if she was to give a good speech, she couldn't only talk about her pros. She had to bring up her flaws, as well. And while most of that stuff was behind her, there was plenty she still wasn't over — plenty she would _never_ be over.

Just because she'd decided to redeem herself and do better didn't mean that she was okay with everything she'd done. It didn't mean that she was ready to talk about parts of her she wished she could erase from her mind.

"Don't overdo it, okay?" you told her. "They're there to listen to you, not the other way around. You can say whatever you want." _And also leave out whatever you want,_ you thought. It would only be lying if she denied doing anything bad.

Rowena nodded and followed it with a quiet, "Aye."

You kissed her, then went back to combing your hair, letting her finish smoothing the creases on her clothes. Clad in high heels, black pants, and a white blouse, she was the picture of style. Hair fell over her shoulders in waves, like a red, silky waterfall. Her cheeks were pink, flushed like she was blushing, for once completely natural. Aside from mascara, a bit of eyeshadow, and lipstick the color of dried blood, she wore no makeup. This was business. Blends of blue and purple eyeshadows in various shades weren't appropriate.

It took all your willpower not to stare at her with your mouth wide open and drool sliding down its corner the entire way to the school. She looked like a teacher, stern and composed, as if she was about to punish an unruly student, severely, to make an example out of them as a warning to others. You would have no trouble being that student. You made a mental note to ask her about role playing this later.

The school was located in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of trees. You and Rowena had almost gotten lost a few times. Lucky for you, your girl was as good at navigation as she was at survival. She'd managed to get you on the right path without almost any effort. You endearingly called her your little GPS; she pretended to be offended by the nickname, but you knew she loved your praise, even if it came in the form of teasing.

The Baudelaire mansion was huge, surrounded by a large yard filled with ripe, blooming trees and flowers grown for various potions and spells. You recognized some of the herbs, having used them yourself, a few of them growing in your garden, courtesy of Rowena. While lone, the place looked cosy, homely. There were no cars and busy streets to disturb the peace, no bigots vandalizing the property and screaming that the residents are Satanists and damning them to Hell. No danger of hunters accidentally discovering them and killing everyone in sight. Just miles and miles of peace and quiet and, most important of all, safety. Had you known about this place back when you were a solitary witch, terrible at magic and without Rowena there to teach you, you would have asked Agatha to let you attend her classes.

Agatha greeted you warmly, with a wide smile and a quick but friendly hug, but it was nothing compared to the welcome the students had given you. There were about twenty of them, most of them girls with a few boys added to the mix, none seemingly older than twenty. As soon as the door to what-must-have-been-a-bedroom-turned-classroom opened and Rowena stepped into view in all her professional, graceful glory, all chatter died down. Mouths that were whispering just moments ago now formed Os, staring at your girl as if she were a creature of legend.

To them, that was exactly what she was.

Agatha gave a small introduction. Your cheeks burned bright red as heads turned your way and eyed you in awe at finding out you were Rowena's girlfriend. You always prided yourself in it — hell, even when you were nothing but her apprentice, you were proud. Not many get a chance to learn from the great and powerful Rowena MacLeod.

Even less get to date her.

Giving a last quick warning to the young witches to be quiet and listen, Agatha moved aside to stand beside you and let Rowena take her place by her desk, where she could face the entire classroom.

Rowena gave a few short greetings, each accompanied with a smile you knew too well — a mixture of joy and nervousness, both proud and reluctant at the same time. She started the speech slow, talking about her beginnings as a witch. She was young and overly ambitious and, despite her magic needing plenty of work back then, she never stopped trying. She didn't let failure define her. She knew she could do it, and she did it, no matter what it took.

A look of guilt flashed over her face at the part, but she quickly masked it with a neutral one.

As the speech progressed, Rowena went on to talk about her accomplishments. She brought up the spells and potions she'd come up with herself. The Grand Coven witches were jealous of her power, she said. They were jealous of raw power that came naturally to her, the power they had to work for, unlike her, who had simply been born with it. So they'd bound it.

That hadn't stopped her from archiving greatness. With centuries of hard work and practice, she'd climbed her way to the top. She was one of the most powerful witches alive. Not just due to her nature, but her efforts, as well. Nature had just given her an opportunity. It was her sheer willpower that had allowed her to make the best of it.

The students clapped as her speech came to an end, beyond joyful to have been able to listen to her. You clapped along, smiling from ear to ear, pride beaming out of your every pore. Rowena turned to look at you amongst the commotion, and you winked at her, your smile widening. _You were awesome,_ you mouthed and stuck both thumbs up in the air. She grinned, giving a grateful nod.

Then something in her expression shifted and she looked at the joyous classroom, eyes trailing over every single young witch who looked at her with stars in his or her eyes. Supporting her. Admiring her. Wishing they were her.

For some reason, the realization seemed to frighten her rather than excite her.

 _What's wrong?,_ you mouthed.

Rowena shook her head in response, face falling in what appeared to be sadness. As the clapping slowly died down, she turned back to the students and, taking a deep breath, said, "I've got a few more things to add."

Her eyes quickly wandered to Agatha, who gave her a small nod, prompting her to continue.

"When I became a witch, I wasn't just a pale, scared tanner's daughter. I was also a mother."

She swallowed a lump that had formed in the back of her throat.

"I resented my son because of the actions of his father. I treated him terribly. And when he was eight years old, I abandoned him."

Tears formed in her eyes, and she tried her hardest to hold them back. She couldn't let these strangers — who, aside from not knowing her, looked up to her — see her break down. Your heart broke for her. All you wanted to do was run over to her and pull her in a bone-crushing hug, like you always did when she got sad. But you had an audience now. It was hard enough for her to talk about it without you embarrassing her.

"I let my power get the better of me," Rowena continued. "I was mad and reckless. The Grand Coven wasn't just jealous of me. They considered me a threat. Not just to them, but to us all. Witches everywhere were being burned and drowned and hanged. We were supposed to stay quiet, not flaunt our magic. I wouldn't listen, so they took care of it."

She took another deep, steadying breath.

"But they couldn't stop me. No one could stop me. Back then, I didn't let anyone stand in my way. As long as I got what I wanted, I didn't care who got hurt. I was a selfish, petty, evil creature. A part of me thinks I still am, but some people beg to differ."

She threw a glance your way and pulled on a small smile. You shook your head. Those days were behind her. She could think of herself what she wanted. She could hate herself and hold a grudge until the end of times, but that wouldn't change the fact that she was a different person now. She'd changed, and her willingness to give this speech was proof of that.

"I forced myself to believe that I wasn't capable of love. Love was weakness, and I swore never to be weak again."

She chuckled bitterly at the memory, looking at you from the corner of her eye. You studying under her didn't quite work out the way she'd initially expected.

"Everywhere I went, I brought death and ruin. I betrayed those who got close to me. I thought that was the way life worked. Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest. No one and nothing mattered except for power. People — friends, loved ones, they were nothing but pawns."

She took a short moment to compose herself before continuing.

"I allied myself with the worst of the worst. He… he promised me everything I could ever want. Then he killed me. Twice."

She closed her eyes, pushing back the memories swirling around her head. Your own eyes filled with tears. _Don't go there,_ you thought. _Don't do this to yourself._ But it was too late now. She was already in too deep to take it back.

She didn't _want_ to take it back.

This was a warning, you realized as you watched her struggling to control her breathing. If these witches wanted her power, they had to know its price. Nothing in life was free. Not even when it came to magic.

"The first time he broke my neck. The second time…" Rowena gulped. "The second time he blinded me, crushed my skull, and set me on fire. I burned alive."

The student's joyful expressions morphed into ones of horror.

"The first few months were hell. I was scared all the time. I had nightmares every single night. I didn't dare leave my house in case he was looking for me. Had Y/N not been there, I don't know how I would've survived."

She gave you an appreciative glance.

"He's dead now, thankfully. But I can't change what he did to me. I'll never be able to change that."

Her fingers clenched into fists, as nervous as they were helpless. Years could pass. She could move on. But what happened with Lucifer would forever remain on her mind, a stain she could never wash out.

"I still get nightmares sometimes. They aren't just my burden to bear; they're Y/N's, too."

Rowena's face fell, her expression apologetic, guilty. You'd told her countless of times not to be so hard on herself. Her pain could never be a burden. _She_ could never be a burden. Being in a relationship with someone meant sharing everything, from happiness to sickness. You couldn't just want her good and resent her bad. Both were what made Rowena who she was, and you loved her for them.

She cleared her throat. "I'm not telling you this for pity points," she said, blinking back unshed tears, trying to hold on to the little dignity she had left. "I'm giving you a warning. Power like mine comes with a price, and you aren't the only ones paying it." A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, faint, but encouraging. "There's nothing wrong with aiming for greatness. Just know your limits. At the end of the day, there are things more important than power."

With that she nodded, and ear-piercing applause erupted as students started clapping once again. Rowena's smile widened at the wordless praise, but you could see traces of emotion hidden underneath the facade. Talking about what she'd gone through always brought her down, and that was when you were alone. You couldn't imagine what it must have felt like to be talking about it in front of twenty strangers who were staring at her intently and absorbing every word that came out of her mouth like a sponge.

As the clapping died down, Agatha dismissed the class and announced that dinner would be ready in half an hour. Students hurried to out, throwing glances and smiles at Rowena on their way out. She returned their smile, and only let it fade once everyone had vacated the classroom, leaving only the two of you and Agatha inside.

"You were excellent, Rowena!" Agatha exclaimed, grinning up at your girlfriend. "Thank you so much for doing this for us."

"The pleasure's all mine. You know how much I love an audience," Rowena replied, face lit with another fake look of delight.

The other witch nodded. "I'm sorry if I put you on the spot. I didn't mean to open any old wounds." The apology was genuine; as much as she wanted Rowena to speak before her students, she had no ill intentions towards her. She was old and had a nasty past, just like your girlfriend, but she wasn't a monster.

"I wanted to speak about it. They need to know the risks," Rowena told her.

"I appreciate it. We all do." Agatha nodded again, first at her, then at you. "Would you like to join us for dinner?"

Instinctively, you glanced at one of the large windows. The darkness had already started settling, the pale blue of the day sky slowly melting into the black night. If you stayed any longer, it would be pitch dark when it was time to go home. You weren't a fan of nighttime traveling. The only thing you liked to do at night was cuddle with Rowena under the covers and lay on her chest until the soothing beats of her heart put you to sleep.

The quiet grumbling of your stomach shook you from your thoughts. You hadn't eaten for hours. As much as you wanted to go home as soon as possible, you couldn't say no to some food.

"I would love to," Rowena said, then looked over to you. "What about you, Y/N?"

"I'm in."

"Perfect!" Agatha beamed. "I'll go prepare two more plates. You girls feel free to look around. Make yourselves at home. If you want a tour, ask any of the students."

"Agatha?" Rowena said as the witch turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"Would you be a dear and tell me where the restroom is?"

"The one down here is out of order, so you'll have to go upstairs." She pointed out the door, to a large staircase in the lobby. "Second room on the left. You can't miss it."

Rowena thanked her, and the two of you headed where you were directed. Just as Agatha said, the bathroom was easily found, the big _WC_ sign hanging on the door a sure giveaway. Rowena rushed inside, and you followed after her. As soon as you closed the door, she pressed her palms against the first in a row of sinks and looked herself in the mirror. Then her head dropped, and a sigh escaped her throat, large and heavy, as if she'd been holding it back for a while.

She most likely had.

"Rowena, are you okay?" you asked, concern that had dawned on your face seeping into your tone.

"Aye. I just…"

She closed her eyes for a short moment, and when she opened them and tilted her head to look up at you, a tear rolled down her cheek. Many more brimmed in its wake. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears kept coming, harder and harder to hold back.

You were by her side in an instant, laying a hand on her shoulder. She melted into the touch and leaned into you. Her forehead pressed against your chest, her hair falling over her face like a curtain of scarlet waves, hiding her, protecting her from curious glances of invisible strangers.

"You were amazing," you said, rubbing gentle, soothing circles over her back. "I'm so proud of you."

If you were in her shoes, you would've never been able to talk about your trauma the way that she had, especially in front of so many strangers. Not only had she talked about it — she'd remained strong throughout the entire speech, not once faltering, not once breaking down and showing weakness.

She'd given those students a lesson at her own expense, with nothing to gain other than an appreciative applause. Something the old Rowena never would have done. It was just another proof of her change — one of the many. She hadn't just gotten her redemption. She'd _earned_ it.

Rowena pulled back and looked up, teary eyes boring into yours. "They had to know the price of power."

"Now they do. All thanks to you." You cupped her cheeks in both of your hands. "You did such a good job."

"You think so?"

"I _know_ so. You were so brave. And so strong." You gave a teasing wink and, jokingly, added, "I bet half of those students wish they were me right now."

Rowena chuckled. "You think too highly of yourself."

"I learned from the best."

You both laughed. It felt good to see her lighten up. Happy Rowena was your favorite Rowena.

"Feeling better?" you asked after a few moments of nothing but quiet and staring into each other's eyes.

"A bit," Rowena said. "It still… _hurts,_ but not as much."

A flood of painful memories was bound to hurt. It would take a bit of time for everything to settle back — and you would be there every second. You once swore never to leave her alone at times like this, and you intended to keep that promise. What kind of a girlfriend would you be if you left her to deal with pain all on her own? She'd taken care of you when you needed it. It was only fair for you to do the same. You loved her too much to abandon her at a time when she needed you the most.

"Can I do anything?" you asked. There usually wasn't much you could do, but it never hurt to ask. Sometimes, even getting her a cup of tea or a glass of water helped.

"Being here is more than enough," Rowena said. She clasped her hand over one of yours, twining your fingers in a gentle knot. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me." She never did. This wasn't a service you were providing for payment — it was a duty that came with being in a relationship. For worse and for better. In sickness and in health. "Wanna skip dinner and go home?"

She shook her head. "I'm good to stay. Unless you want to go."

"I wanna stay, too. I'm hungry."

"My wee glutton," she teased.

"Look who's talking," you retorted playfully.

"Are you saying I eat like a pig?"

"Are you saying _I_ do?"

You shared another fit of laughter, sadness and tension gone, replaced by light-hearted humor and banter. The way it was supposed to be.

Brushing your lips against Rowena's in a quick kiss, you stepped aside and let her fix her smudged makeup. She couldn't show up at dinner looking like a lovechild of a scarecrow and a clown. She was here on business, and she wouldn't look anything short of professional. Especially since the majority of the people here looked up to her. She had to look perfect, like every self-respecting idol.

You thought she was perfect either way, makeup — even smudged — or no makeup. But she was presenting herself to the world, and the world had much different — higher — standards. And she was more than willing to flawlessly look the part.

Just as Rowena finished fixing the mascara on her left eye, a loud thud erupted from downstairs. Then something that sounded suspiciously like a gun being fired echoed throughout the entirety of the large mansion, piercing, deafening, and half a second later, the blissful silence turned into frantic screams.

And just like that, the evening that was supposed to have been fun turned into a scene of horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by the lovely and wonderful OswinTheStrange, who also helped me come up with the summary.
> 
> Thanks to an-egalitarian-sinner for Scottish help.


	2. Titanium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after the song Titanium. The song really fits the theme.

Rowena dropped her mascara in the sink and glanced at the door, as if she could see through it if she stared intently enough.

"What the hell was that?" you asked, following her gaze.

More shots echoed, prompting louder, more desperate screams. You could hear cries of what seemed to be Latin amongst the shrieking chorus. Footsteps, heavy, running, rumbled, like a herd of elephants stomping up the stairs. A herd of terrified, screaming elephants fleeing gunfire.

Whatever the situation was, you knew it was bad. Gunshots and screaming teenagers were never a good sign.

Rowena shrugged. Without a second thought, she stepped forwards and headed for the door. Instinct urged you to grab her hand before it could reach the doorknob, but you ignored it. The commotion — the shots, the screams — originated from downstairs. The two of you were safe on the second floor.

You hoped.

You followed Rowena down the hall to the large staircase. Your eyes widened at the sight that greeted you in the lobby, confusion on your face replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated horror. Five students, four girls and one boy, laying on the ground. Blood, fresh and very, very red, pooling around them, the crimson puddle growing larger every passing second. Still. Motionless. Dead. One girl's eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling. Forever. Never to close, never to blink, never to look elsewhere again.

Because she was dead.

All five of them were dead.

And their murderers weren't done yet. There were five of them, tall, decisive, pointing their guns at the fleeing witches in search of their next target. Men, if their built was anything to go by. All clad in plaid shirts of various colors and jeans, with heavy, worn boots on their feet, thundering with every step.

Hunters.

The realization dawned on you like a slap directly to the face, sharp and painful. Panic, much alike the one dripping from screams of surviving students running up the stairs in search of safety, settled in your body, in your every cell, every pore, every single bit of you.

The hunters have found the school.

And they weren't going to give up until every single witch was dead.

"Rowena, they're…" you said, too terrified to say it out loud.

"Hunters," Rowena finished for you. She sounded as terrified as you.

You reached for her hand, your other one gripping the banister so tightly your knuckles turned white. Your fingers wrapped around hers, squeezing with all you had. You needed to touch her, to feel her; needed her warmth to overthrow the cold that had taken over the entirety of your body in the form of frightened, dreadful chills.

Rowena squeezed back, a gesture you needed more than anything in the world right now. A wordless promise of safety. If need be, she would protect you. Those hunters weren't going to lay a hand on you.

You promised her the same thing.

Agatha ran forwards, positioning herself before the students and the hunters. She screamed out something in Latin. One of the hunters stiffened, then his head snapped to the side in a quick, swift motion, and a loud crack rang through the screaming crowd. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut, his weapon dropping beside his body, discarded, abandoned.

Before she could cast the spell again, one of the remaining hunters pointed his gun directly at her head and fired.

A glass-shattering bang and a splash of blood shooting through the air like sprinkles watering the garden in the morning, and the witch was on the floor. Lying on her back, arms spread at her sides, mouth slightly open, she looked like an angel — only instead of snow, her form was framed in blood. Her own blood. Dead eyes stared up, directly into the place where Rowena and you stood. Directly into _you._

A scream tore from your throat, melting into the chorus of others. Fear and pain rushed out of you in the form of a shriek that would put a banshee to shame, no longer able to be contained.

You didn't _want_ to contain it. You wanted it out, wanted everything bad and horrible out of you, wanted it as far away from you as possible. You wanted to be away from this place of horror, away from hunters and screaming students and dead eyes.

The hunters gathered at the bottom of the stairs and pointed their guns at the screaming crowd. They fired in unison, like a choir beginning its haunting, devastating song. Only instead of voices what rang throughout the Baudelaire mansion were gunshots.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

More bodies dropped. More blood flowed. More screams echoed, louder than ever.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

They kept firing, not caring who they hit. Not caring that the witches — people — they were shooting at were teenagers. Their target was everyone in this school, young and old. Age was just a number when you weren't human, a label that held no meaning. It didn't matter that the worst these kids had done was cheating on a math test or faking an illness to skip a lesson. They were witches, and to hunters, witches were predators, monsters, abominations. And as such, they had to be eliminated.

You screamed again and took a few steps back, pulling Rowena with you. "Come on!" you cried. Tears fell from your eyes, drenching your cheeks. You couldn't be here any longer, couldn't watch the death and blood grow closer and closer, like slowly approaching doom creeping up on you from below, itching to get its filthy hands — or in this case, bullets — on you.

Rowena looked at you, the same uncertainty from earlier spread across her face. She wanted to protect you, wanted to get you to safety. But she also wanted to help the remaining students.

"Please," you begged through tears. Your heart pounded fast, as if you'd just run a marathon. If she stayed, she could get hurt. She could get killed, like those students. Like Agatha. A pang of pain shot through your heart at the thought of the witch. All she wanted was to redeem herself, to guide young witches to the right path.

She deserved better.

They _all_ deserved better.

You cared about the students, too, but what you cared about the most was Rowena. You loved her, and you wanted her to be safe. She looked into your eyes and understanding settled on her face. It wasn't just your need to protect her that urged you to get as far away from danger as possible. You were scared to your very core. You needed her to be there with you, to keep you safe. To take care of you the way only she knew how.

If there was one thing Rowena could understand, it was fear. She'd been living in it for over a year now. You were there for her every time she woke up drenched in sweat or got startled by a random memory. You'd never made a simple complaint. You were always there with open arms and kind words, always ready to choose her, regardless of how it inconvenienced you.

This time, it was her turn to choose you.

She gave a small nod and, before you could process the decision she'd made, started running up the long, wide hall, pulling you after her. You let out a sigh of relief. You never doubted her, not once, but you couldn't blame her if she wanted to stay and fight the hunters. She wasn't the same selfish person anymore. As strange as it was, she cared about people now. Not in the way most people cared, but she did. You had no doubt, as glad as she was to be able to get you to safety — a temporary illusion of it, but safety nonetheless. Wherever she'd take you, it couldn't be worse than the horror downstairs. — a part of her was feeling guilty. She'd basically left the people that looked up to her to be slaughtered.

Any other time, the mere thought of that would make you feel guilty, as well.

Now, you quietly followed after her.

There was nothing Rowena, and by extension you, could do for those kids. The hunters had killed Agatha, an old and insanely powerful witch, with ease. They could just as easily do the same to Rowena. For all you knew, their guns could have been-loaded with witch-killing bullets, and there was no guarantee your and Rowena's Resurrection Seals would bring you back from death inflicted by them. You weren't willing to try your luck, and neither was Rowena.

Screeching students all around you ran into rooms and slammed the doors behind them. More shots echoed. More blood-curdling cries. More death. You closed your eyes and tightened your hold on Rowena's hand, letting her lead you. If you couldn't see, it couldn't be real. It _wouldn't_ be real. All you had to do was pretend it was a dream, and it would all go away.

_Bang!_

_Aah!_

_Bang!_

_Thud!_

_Stop it!_ you thought, a whine squeezing through your tightly shut lips, sealing screams that scratched at your throat and demanded release. _Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!_ Why couldn't it stop? Why couldn't you make it stop? Why couldn't you wake up and send it away?

Because this wasn't a dream. It was real. People — children — were dying and there was nothing you could do other than run for your life and get somewhere seemingly safe, lest you wanted to meet the same fate.

You were suddenly yanked sideways. You stumbled, almost tripping over your own feet, but you managed to regain your balance. Rowena pulled you into a room at the very end of the hallway and slammed the door shut behind you. She leaned her back against the door and bent over, hands on her knees, panting heavily.

Wrapping your arms around your chest, you looked around. The room was tiny but comfortable. Fading beige-painted walls, a nice, comfy bed, a desk with a closed laptop atop it, and a closet. Normal. Homely. A few posters of celebrities adored by the current teenage crowd hung above the bed, pointing to a teenager living here.

A teenager having _lived_ here. Past tense.

Whoever she was, she was most likely already dead.

A new batch of tears spilled down your face. A sob ripped from your throat, long overdo. How could this happen? How could a day that had started so innocently end so bad? It didn't make sense. None of it made any sense. This school was supposed to be safe from everything, including hunters. How did they find it?

Most important of all, why were they doing this? These kids weren't hurting anyone. The reason this school was founded was to point witches in the right direction and, from everything you'd seen so far, it was doing its job. Why attack a safe place? Why kill innocents?

A hand on your shoulder shook you from your thoughts. Rowena was standing before you, looking at you with sympathy you hadn't seen in months, since you'd last cried your heart out. _I'm here,_ her gaze said, without a single word spoken aloud. _I'm with you. I love you._ She didn't have to verbalize it to say it.

Gently, tentatively, she put her arms around you. You leaned into her, letting your head drop on her shoulder. You held onto her like your life depended on it, too desperate, too frightened to release her. You wanted to stay in her arms forever, warm, protected, safe. Nothing and no one could hurt you for as long as you were with her. You let yourself believe it. It was easier than to live in reality, for right now, reality was a cruel, cold-hearted bitch, and you wanted to be as far away from it as possible.

"They're dead," you whimpered, voice cracking with each spoken word."Agatha a-and those kids — the-they're dead.

"I know," Rowena confirmed in a gentle tone, like that of a mother consoling a child.

"Rowena's, they're dead."

"I know, darling. It's okay."

"It's not okay," you cried. Your voice dropped to a raspy whisper. "Nothing's okay anymore."

 _"We're_ okay," she said.

For now. It wouldn't be long before the hunters came knocking — or rather pounding — at the door. And then…

You didn't want to think about what would happen then.

"Calm down. I've got you," Rowena said.

"Stay with me," you begged.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Please."

She was the only thing that made sense in this situation, the only thing you could rely on. You needed her more than you needed to breathe. You couldn't survive this without her.

Rowena stepped back from the hug. She looked you in the eyes, the promise clear in her gaze before she said it aloud. "I promise. I'm not going to leave you, Y/N. Not now, not ever. We'll get through this. Those bloody bastards aren't going to lay a hand on you."

You nodded. That was enough. It was more than you could have asked for, given the circumstances. If there was one thing that remained unchanged about Rowena, it was that she kept her word. If she promised it, it would come true. There was no way around it.

"Come. Let's hide," Rowena said. She led you behind a closet that stood tall and heavy against the left wall. It wasn't much of a hideout, but it was as good as you were going to get. The bed was too low for you both to hide underneath it, and the room was too tiny for improvised hiding spaces, so it was either closet or nothing.

Anything was better than nothing.

The two of you huddled against the wall, tangled into each other like two cats curled up against one another for warmth. Your head was on Rowena's shoulder, both of your arms wrapped firmly around her, clutching her to you as if she were a floating crate and you were lost at sea, desperate and terrified. One of her arms hung around your shoulders. Her tiny fingers gently ran up and down your upper arm, the touch comforting, familiar, warm. Had gunshots and screams not been echoing in the background, you would have closed your eyes and imagined you were at home, on the couch in front of the fireplace, cuddling like you used to do every morning.

It was hard to daydream of comfort when horror surrounded you from every corner. Looking at it was hard. Listening was even worse. No amount of fantasies could smother the terrifying sounds.

"Rowena?" you said.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm sorry." Just as you needed to hear her promises, you needed her to hear your apology. Saying you were sorry couldn't make it right, but it was a show of regret. It counted for something. And you needed her to know you were regretful.

Rowena looked at you, confused. "What are you sorry for?"

"I talked you into coming." Your voice broke, and a sob left your mouth as more tears fell, their bitterness burning at your already swollen eyes and cheeks. "You-you didn't want to come a-and I…"

If only you'd listened instead of nagging. You could have been home, tossing banter and laughter over dinner. The Baudelaire mansion mass shooting would be a thing you'd hear about on the news; you'd feel sad for the lives lost, but you'd move on. Just another case of American gun violence. Nothing new. It would slip your mind easy enough.

Now, it would stay with you for the rest of your existence.

If only you'd kept your mouth shut.

"Y/N, listen to me," Rowena said sternly, like a teacher about to lecture a stubborn student. She looked you directly in the eyes. "This is not your fault."

"But I got us here." For her. You wanted to laugh. How stupid could you have been, to basically pressure your girlfriend into danger with the excuse that it was for her own good? You should have left it alone. You should have kept quiet. You shouldn't have challenged Rowena's decision. She was centuries older and wiser, with more life experience than you would ever gain. Who were you to think you had any right to change her mind?

Nothing. You were nothing. A nobody who thought, just because she happened to be dating the most powerful witch in the world, she could talk to her like she was a child who didn't know what was good for her.

 _You_ were what wasn't good for her.

"You had no way of knowing what would happen," Rowena said.

Excuses. It didn't matter what your intentions were. You still got her into this. "I still did it."

Rowena let out an exasperated sigh. "Would you stop being stubborn for a minute and listen to me?"

"I'm not being stubborn." Just realistic.

"You are being very stubborn," she argued. She brought her free hand to your chin and tilted your head up to get you to look at her. "I know you only wanted me to have fun, after everything that's happened."

And look where it got you. "We're in danger—"

She cut you off. "That isn't on you. The only ones to blame for this are the hunters." She caressed your cheek, wiping away a few tears with her thumb. "They're already making us out to be villains. Blaming yourself is only feeding into their nonsense."

Your lip quivered. Rowena was right. You couldn't completely absolve yourself of guilt, but she had a point. They were hunting you down because they believed you were evil, irredeemable monsters. If you blamed yourself for what was happening, you were only proving them right.

And they weren't right. What they were doing could never be right.

"Don't let them get to you. This is on them. Not you," Rowena continued. You nodded, leaning into her touch. Her hand was warm, soft, comforting. "They made a choice to do this and they need to be held accountable."

Just like you had when you'd given her a chance all those years ago. Just like she had when she'd sought redemption. Both choices neither of you regretted.

"What are we going to do?" you squeaked through tears.

"Hide, for now," Rowena replied. "If — _when_ they come here, we hit them with everything we've got."

"I'm scared."

"I know, darling. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. But if anything happens to me, use every spell you know."

Your heart stopped. "Nothing's gonna happen to you."

But you knew, just as she had, that she couldn't promise you that. She could promise you your safety. She couldn't promise her own. The realization sent a cold, deadly chill down your spine.

"You know me. I'm a survivor. They won't get rid of me that easily." She smiled, then her expression turned serious. "But _if_ something happens, you have to be ready. Do you remember everything I taught you?"

You gave a small nod. You could never forget her lessons.

"Good," Rowena said. "Use it."

"I will."

She smiled proudly. "Good girl."

You couldn't have asked for better praise.

"Think someone's called 911?" you asked.

"Most definitely. Not that there's any point. They aren't going to leave any survivors."

A lump formed in the back of your throat as she said it. You swallowed it. "Should we tell Sam and Dean?" You didn't trust them too much, but for hunters, they were good. Honorable. They only killed when there was a reason to. They didn't go after innocents.

"I was just going to text Samuel," Rowena said.

Great minds think alike. You wanted to smile, but thought better of it.

"Think they'd go against their own for us?"

"Only one way to find out." She took her phone out of her pants pocket and started typing.

"Do you trust them?" you asked.

"I trust Samuel."

That was good enough for you.

As she sent the message, she pocketed her phone and put her hand over yours. You cuddled in silence, listening to the horrifying screams and shots echoing throughout the mansion.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Aah!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

With every shot that sounded, you nestled closer into Rowena, seeking safety, protection. Footsteps were getting closer. The doors that were slammed and pounded on drew nearer to the one to your room. Shrieks and desperate pleas for life were so close, you could make out the words.

_"Please, don't kill me!"_

_"I didn't do anything! I'm only seventeen!"_

_"I want my mom!"_

_"No! Please!"_

You wept into Rowena's chest, letting out silent sobs. How could they kill children? How could they be so cruel, so heartless? Didn't they have families of their own; younger siblings, children, nephews, nieces? How could they kill this carelessly, this heartlessly, as if it meant nothing? As if these kids' lives meant nothing?

Rowena had done some questionable things, but she had never, ever been this cruel. This was too depraved, too wicked even for a witch who used to care about no one but herself. These hunters were worse than their prey. They were the monsters in this story. Not the students. Not Agatha. Not Rowena. Not you.

Them.

Heavy, hard-soled boots thudded closer. Your heart stopped with each step that neared the bedroom, your safe haven that was was from safe. This was only a temporary solution. It was bound to end sometime. You couldn't hide here forever while everyone around you died in fear and horrified screams.

You just didn't expect the illusion, the fantasy of safety that would never come to be, to break this soon.

"They're coming," you whimpered, voice a mere whisper. Broken. Terrified.

"Shh," Rowena said quietly.

_Thud._

_Thud._

Snuggling closer into her, you pressed your face into her blouse and stifled a whine. _Oh, god._ One of them was coming. He was close. So close you could almost smell his dirty, sweaty, blood-stained skin in the air. The thought made your stomach churn.

_Thud._

_Thud._

_No. God, please, no._

Rowena held you with everything she had. The more you pushed against her, the tighter her hold grew. As long as she was here, nothing could hurt you. As long as you were together, both of you were safe. This was just one hunter. If push came to shove, your combined magic could take care of him. After all, he was just one human man.

One armed human man who would stop at nothing until he rid you of your lives, who, aside from a gun loaded with bullets that could take down witches, had backup. They were one man short, but that didn't make them any less dangerous.

Hell, even one hunter would have been cause for concern.

The door flew open with a hard, heavy kick, the force of the blow almost blowing it off its hinges. Your heart stopped. Coldness and heat gathered at the back of your neck and rushed down your spine simultaneously, like an army of ants crawling underneath your skin. A rash of goosebumps sprang all over your body. Your eyes widened, and your jaw dropped in a silent gasp as fear sprawled over your face like a rag rolled down from the top of your head to the bottom.

You were discovered. It was over. He was going to kill you. _No! No, no, no, no, no!_ Your fingers clutched at Rowena's wrist, nails digging into her skin like knives. You tried to take a deep breath, but your throat clenched, as if someone had held it in a bruising, crushing grip. _Please, no!_

Rowena glanced up at you, forest green eyes meeting yours. The look held a promise, an oath you knew she wouldn't break even at the cost of her own life. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, a small display of affection, a caress of lips gently brushing against skin.

Then, before you could even think of stopping her, she sprang to her feet and bravely marched forwards to face the hunter.

 _"Abi!"_ The spell left her mouth in a half-shout before he had a chance to fire at her. There was a thud, then a groan, followed by a clang of metal sliding over the hardwood floor.

The spell hadn't only managed to knock him back — it had made him drop his gun.

Getting to your feet, you peered out from behind the closet. Rowena was running towards the gun, desperate to get it away from the hunter before he regained his balance. Just as she kicked it aside, the hunter rose up. He shot her a glare that looked like it could kill. At over six feet tall, he towered over her. Large and imposing, every bit of him made out of nothing but pure muscle, he looked more like a beast than a man. Looking down at her with thirst for blood in his eyes, he looked like a predator, rabid and dangerous.

Rowena, tiny and thin, looked fragile in comparison.

Suddenly, the hunter's huge, meaty fist shot out and hit her straight in the face. Rowena stumbled backwards, but managed to remain on her feet. Before she could process what happened, another blow landed on her face. Her head whipped to the side and she lost her balance, falling down with a yelp.

"No!" you screamed, jumping out of your hideout.

Just as you were about to utter a spell, the hunter grabbed the collar of Rowena's blouse and hit her again. And again, and again, an endless rain of punches to her cheeks. Left. Right. Left. Right. Rinse and repeat.

If he couldn't shoot her, he might just as well beat her to death. It would take some time and effort, but it was doable. Witches were far more similar to humans than most other supernaturals. What could kill a human could, in most cases, just as easily kill a witch.

"Stop it!" you cried.

Tears clouded your vision and you wiped at your eyes to clear them. You couldn't cast the spell with him touching her. The slightest hesitation, and the hunter wouldn't be the only one to fly away. Rowena could be joining him, as well.

You couldn't risk hurting her.

But you couldn't let him keep hurting her, either.

_What to do? What to do?_

You stared at her form struggling on the floor, tiny hands desperately trying to shove the assailant off. It was no use; he greatly surpassed her in physical strength. To him, she was no more than a doll, fragile and helpless, easy to break and abuse and use any way he saw fit.

You couldn't just stand there and watch her get beaten to death.

You were the only reason she was in this mess. Had she not tried to keep you safe, none of this would have happened. This was your fault. Your responsibility. You had to fix it before it was too late.

Hoping for the best, you threw your hand out, pointed your forefinger at the widely open door, and shouted, _"Abi!"_

The hunter flew backwards, carried by an unseen force, the strength of your magic enhanced by your rage and fear sending him crashing into the wall across the hall. His head snapped back, smashing against the hard surface. His eyes fluttered for a moment, then closed, and his body collapsed to the ground. A circular crimson stain painted the wall where his head had hit it. Blood pooled around him from the wound, encircling first his head, then the entire upper part of his body in thick, metallic-smelling red.

You rushed to Rowena's side. She rose up into a sitting position, the palm of her left hand pressed firmly against the floor for balance. A trail of blood trickled down her nose and the corner of her mouth. Her lower lip was split and bleeding; she winced with every breath she took as the movements pulled at the fresh injury. There was a cut under her eye, a tear on her cheek that spread from her cheekbone almost to her nose. Her cheeks were a deep, angry red. In a few hours, the color would melt into plum purple. Her left eye had already started to bruise. It was pale, but the color was still there. It was hard to hide bruises, however faint they were, on alabaster skin.

Swallowing a concerned scream, you knelt down next to her and grabbed her free hand.

"I'm fine," Rowena said before you could get a single word out. "This is nothing."

It was far from nothing. But you knew better than to argue with her — she had a serious case of downplaying her injuries — especially now, with danger so close you could almost taste it. You could worry and hover over her later, when you were home, safe and far, far away from deranged hunters and terrified, screaming witches. The mama hen act would have to wait.

"Come here," you said. Rising up, you reached out for Rowena. She took your hands in a strong grip and let you pull her to her feet. Her legs wobbled a bit, but she was quick to regain her balance. She was never one to admit defeat, never one to succumb to weakness. No matter how much pain she was in, she would endure it. Any other time, that would make you even more worried. Now, you were relieved. There were still three more hunters around, alive and very, very intent on killing the two of you like they'd killed the other witches. There was no time for concern.

You pressed your forehead to Rowena's and closed your eyes. You allowed yourself a moment to appreciate that she was here, that she was safe and — aside from a few bruises and cuts — unharmed. Your fingers squeezed hers so tight you thought they might crush them, but Rowena let you. She let you hold her and feel her, let you bask in the warmth of her skin on yours. It was the closest to safety you had, and she didn't have it in her to take it away from you.

She needed that feeling just as much as you did.

In a split second, it was all gone.

Without a word of warning, Rowena shoved you aside, the earlier tenderness of her touch replaced by raw, desperate strength. Your eyes went wide as you fell on your backside, all questions you'd had forever silenced by the sight of a short, plump hunter in the doorway, pointing his gun directly at the place you'd occupied a second ago.

The place where Rowena now stood.

A gunshot rang loud and deafening, like a bomb exploding right in front of you.

Rowena gasped. Your eyes followed hers as they trailed downwards, stopping on her stomach. Dark, sticky red soaked her blouse, the stain growing larger and larger, like someone had poured a bucket of paint over her abdomen.

If only it had been paint.

She tilted her head sideways to look at you. Then she fell, landing with a thump, a slight groan escaping her trembling lips.

All self-control you had left thrown to the wind, you screamed. And screamed, and screamed, and screamed like a banshee wailing for the dead. You ignored the pain in your throat, ignored the danger you would attract. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

All you had left was pain and rage and fear, all interwoven into piercing, glass-shattering screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely editor, OswinTheStrange. Also, huge thanks to UltimateFandomTrash and evilwriter37 for showing me scenes of beatings from their works to use as a reference for my own, as well as rowdyhooligan for helping me with tags and warnings.


	3. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after Linkin Park's song.

The ache squeezing at your heart overrode all of your other emotions. Fear and guilt stirring inside you made way for pain, sharp, deep, a hurricane swallowing gusts of wind in its path of destruction. It felt as if a knife had pierced your heart and poked around the fast-beating muscle, bringing forth more agony, more suffering.

Survival instinct forgotten, you threw yourself on your knees before Rowena and the hunter, using your body as a shield. Running was pointless. You were trapped in this tiny room with nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. The only exit was the door, and it was blocked by the hunter standing in the doorway and staring right at you; doing nothing, saying nothing, just staring with his gun aimed straight at your kneeling form, like a robot with no will of its own, ordered to kill everyone in sight.

Only, the will to kill was all his. He and the rest of his group had come to this school with the sole intention to kill every single person inside of it.

You looked down at Rowena, not caring that your back was turned to a merciless killer, a predator in human form. Not caring that the next bullet to be fired would lodge itself in you. Rowena was panting, in obvious struggles for breath. Her hands. folded over her blood-soaked stomach, were shaking. The scarlet liquid poured out of the wound restlessly, seeming to never run out. A small pool had formed around her abdomen. The smell of coins lingered in the air like perfume, thick and steadfast.

The hunter could shoot all he wanted. For all you cared, his bullets could make Swiss cheese out of your body. So long as Rowena was protected, you didn't care what happened to you.

Your screams had melted into sobs, throat too strained to let out anymore loud sounds. You reached for Rowena's hand, yours as shaky as hers — if not more — and held tightly, with the same intensity she'd held you just moments ago, before the door flew wide open and a bullet had almost ended your life.

Instead, it was in the process of ending Rowena's.

A sudden commotion erupted from down the hall, but you paid it no mind. Gunshots echoed. You stiffened each time a new one rang throughout the air, but you remained focused on Rowena, trying to shut them out. It didn't matter what was happening. It didn't matter that there was death all around you. All that mattered was your girlfriend, wounded, helpless, desperate, looking at you with eyes like that of a harmed puppy, the brilliant greens churning with pain and sorrow.

 _Please, don't die,_ you thought, tears sliding down your face like a waterfall. _Please, don't leave me._ You'd almost lost her twice already. What was the chance you would be as lucky to get her back again as you were before? If these bullets were the kind that killed witches, you didn't know what to expect, didn't know what to look forward to. If there was anything to look forward to at all.

"Rowena," you wailed, voice raspy, throat achy.

"Y/N," she whispered. It had taken a lot out of her to say your name.

More sobs escaped you. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

If only you hadn't talked her into coming here. If only you hadn't been so persistent.

More footsteps echoed outside, drawing closer. Was it the other hunters, rushing to join in on killing the last two witches left alive?

There was shouting.

As the footsteps neared, the words became clearer.

"Drop your weapon!" a voice ordered.

Silence. Deafening, uncomfortable, suffocating silence.

"Drop your weapon!"

Not the hunters. Your scrambled mind could register that much. The police? A glimmer of hope shined through the pitch black of your thoughts. Had some of the students actually managed to call emergency services? Had Sam and Dean called them?

_Bang!_

A scream tore from your abused throat at the sudden sound. Instinctively, you leaned further down, covering Rowena's body with yours. She wouldn't get hurt because of you. Not again.

You expected the the pain to start burning at your back anytime now, but when none came, you allowed yourself a deep breath.

"Ma'am?" someone said. A man, judging by the deep voice. He stepped closer.

"Stay back!" you screamed. Whipping your head back to shoot him a threatening glare, you were relieved to see a midnight blue uniform instead of expected plaid flannel.

"We're the police," the man said. "You're safe now."

You let out a relieved sigh. It felt as if a huge, heavy burden had been lifted off your shoulders. The danger was over. The hunters were — presumably — dead. Everything was going to be okay.

Or not.

"Call the ambulance!" you exclaimed as the policemen — three of them — entered the room and positioned themselves a few feet from you, eyes focused on you cradling Rowena's bleeding form. Covered in blood that wasn't yours and sobbing hysterically, you must have looked like a lunatic. You didn't give a damn. Your girl needed you, and you would rather die than let her down again. "She needs help!"

"They're right outside," one of the officers — a blonde with her hair tied in a neat ponytail — said.

"Hurry!" you shrieked.

She, along with another officer, rushed outside to get them, while the third cop, the one who'd first approached you, stayed with you.

"It's gonna be okay," you whimpered, stroking Rowena's forehead, while your other hand still clutched hers. "You're gonna be okay."

"I—" she choked out, then swallowed it. "I—"

"Try not to strain yourself, ma'am," the policeman said as he applied pressure to her wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

You pressed your own hand over his, but it was no use. The blood kept rushing out, undisturbed by your joint attempts to stop it.

Rowena ignored him. "I-i-iron," she croaked.

You frowned. "What?" But as her eyes trailed down to her blood-drenched abdomen, understanding downed on you like a slap to the face.

The bullet was iron. A small part of you wanted to dance in joy. Unlike a witch-killing bullet, an iron one would only weaken her — if she hadn't bled out first. She most likely wouldn't be able to use her magic for a while, and would be forced to depend on human means of healing as opposed to potions and spells, but she would be fine. She would live.

That didn't mean she wasn't still in danger.

The paramedics couldn't come soon enough. The police officer had to hold you back as they collectively knelt around Rowena and worked on stopping the bleeding from her wound. You didn't want to part from her, not even for a few feet. You needed to hold her, to feel her warmth on you, even as it melted into cold as more blood leaked out of her weakened body. What if she was scared? What if she thought you abandoned her? Wouldn't be the first time someone she trusted, someone she loved with all her heart had turned their back on her when she needed them the most.

"I'm here, sweetheart!" you shouted over the noise of paramedics mumbling medical nonsense you didn't understand. "I'm right here."

You kept repeating it, over and over like a mantra, even as the paramedics loaded her onto a stretcher and wheeled her downstairs and over to their vehicle. They offered to look you over, but you declined. Your clothes and hands were covered in blood, but none of it was yours. You were fine, not a mark on you, not even the tiniest scratch. Rowena had made sure of that.

You were supposed to be the one lying on that stretcher drenched in her own blood. Not her.

To your relief, you were allowed to ride to the hospital with Rowena. Seated next to the driver as he pressed on the gas pedal, you eyes were glued to the back of the vehicle, where the paramedics hovered over Rowena like a flock of birds. _Please, be okay,_ you thought. _Please. Please. Please._ If she were to die, the Resurrection Seal would work its magic. But at what price? She was already traumatized enough as it was. Another death would shatter her, and this time, you feared your whispers wouldn't be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. Your kisses and arms wrapped tightly around her wouldn't be enough. _You_ wouldn't be enough. The thought terrified you to the core.

One of the paramedics came to talk to you, asking for Rowena's information. Birthday was easy enough. So what if she was born a few centuries before 1979? Who was counting? She wasn't on any medication, and she had no allergies — other than iron, which was why they had to take the bullet out. It wasn't exactly an allergy, but it was close enough, and it gave them an incentive to remove the bullet. You'd heard of cases where bullets were left inside people's bodies, and you couldn't have that. Rowena needed her magic as much as she needed to breathe. It was better to remove the damn thing in a safe environment that her having you remove it at home. Or even worse, her attempting to remove it herself.

You broke into sobs as you were asked about her blood type. You didn't know. She'd never mentioned it, never had to mention it. The paramedic assured you it was okay, but you couldn't stop the tears from flowing. Nothing was okay. Nothing was going to be okay until Rowena was out of mortal danger and you could hold her hand and hear her voice again.

Your heart fell into pieces when you arrived at the hospital and they wheeled her away, with strict instructions that you remain in the waiting room. She was in good hands now, they said. They would do their best of her.

Do their best. Not save her. Not make her better. Just try. The reasonable part of you knew better than anyone they couldn't make a promise they had no way of knowing they could keep. It was no different than you promising Rowena to do your best to protect her from Lucifer. You couldn't do it, but you could damn well try. Still, fear raged through you at the uncertainty, numbing all your other senses.

You only allowed yourself a calming breath a couple hours later, when the door to the operating room opened and Rowena's unconscious form, covered by a white sheet in place of a blanket, was wheeled out, surrounded by doctors and nurses. You jumped to your feet, almost knocking down the chair you were occupying, and rushed to follow them, only to be stopped by a doctor.

"Is she okay?" you asked, voice raspy, face coated in dried tears.

"Ma'am—"

"Is she okay?" you repeated, cutting him off. "Is she safe?" _Is she going to die?_ You let the question linger unspoken. The context was clear from the grim, worried tone of your voice.

"Are you family?" the doctor asked.

What kind of question was that? "I'm her girlfriend."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can only discuss Miss MacLeod's condition with family."

You wanted to weep again. "I'm the only family she has left!" you exclaimed desperately. Most of her blood relatives had been dead for centuries, and the only one she'd had left had sacrificed himself a year ago. If not for you, she would be alone. The thought saddened you. You took a small breath and lowered your voice, your teary eyes meeting the doctor's. "Please. I just want to know if she's okay. _Please."_

Sympathy spilled over the doctors aging features. He sighed. "She's going to be fine."

You breathed out in relief. "And the bullet?"

"We took it out."

More relief.

"When can I see her?"

"When she wakes up. She needs to give consent to your visit." At the devastated look on your face, he added, "It's the law. I'm sorry."

 _Fuck the law! Fuck whoever thought of such a regulation!_ You decided to keep those thoughts to yourself. The doctor had done nothing wrong. Don't shoot the messenger, you reminded yourself. He wasn't the one who'd come up with that law. He'd even broken it for you.

"I'm going to tell the nurses to tell Miss MacLeod you're here first thing she wakes up," he said. "If she gives consent, you can go see her."

She would give consent. You knew she would. Rowena wasn't going to be happy to wake up in a hospital. And she sure as hell wasn't going to be happy to wake up in it alone. You were willing to bet your whereabouts would be the first thing she'd ask about.

You gave the doctor your sincerest gratitude. As he went back to his business, you slumped back into your chair. There was a long night ahead of you. You were tired, but you doubted you could sleep after everything that had happened. You _wouldn't_ sleep until you talked to Rowena and were one hundred percent sure she was okay.

The cops showed up sometime later. They wanted to talk to you, and had given you the option of either doing it here or at the station. You chose the waiting room. You couldn't — _wouldn't_ — leave Rowena. The few feet parting the two of you were too great a distance as it was.

You gave the cops your version of events, leaving out the parts about magic. You and Rowena were at the Baudelaire mansion as guests, invited by Agatha, Rowena's longtime friend. You were just about to head to dinner when five gunmen showed up and shot everyone in sight. No, you didn't know how one of them had gotten his neck broken. And no, you had no idea who'd smashed another one's head against the wall. Maybe his partner, you suggested. It was only the logical conclusion. Human. Ordinary. How could you know, when you were busy freaking out over your girlfriend, who, as you pointed out a tad more harshly than intended, had been shot by that same gunman?

The cops seemed to buy your story. Sympathy never left their faces, even as you said you didn't give a damn about what had happened to the man who'd shot your girlfriend and openly expressed your delight at the news that all five of the shooters were dead. If only you had been the one to kill the rest. The police had no idea how lucky they were.

They left you alone then, taking your number with the promise to get back in touch if they needed anything else.

An hour after they left, two familiar faces greeted you, and you didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. You settled for a mixture of both. Sam and Dean were clad in uniforms, the police mode fully on. Had you not known them, you'd find them believable. They'd certainly had plenty of practice feigning law enforcement. Police officer disguises were a breath of fresh air to their usual FBI shtick. Dress for the occasion, that was them.

"Y/N," Sam called as he approached you. You stiffened, but allowed yourself to look up at him. "Hey."

"Hi," you said, voice as expressionless as the look on your face. Don't show anything. Keep your thoughts and feelings at bay.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

You glanced down at your hands and shirt, covered in dried blood. Your girl's blood. You swallowed a whine. "It's not mine," you said.

The brothers said next to you, each at one side.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"Hunters. _You_ guys." You glared at them accusingly. "They killed everyone."

A tear escaped your containment, sliding down your cheek. You wiped it away with the blood-free back of your hand.

"They were kids. Teenagers. They didn't do anything wrong and…" _And now they're dead._ More tears fell. You didn't bother trying to hold them back. You sniffed, looking up at Sam, then at Dean. "You told me hunters only kill bad guys!"

The brother exchanged glances you couldn't read. You didn't care what they were feeling. This wasn't about them.

"We do," Sam said.

"Then why did this happen?" you demanded.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Some hunters—"

"No! Don't you dare play that card with me!" You shot him a glare, both a threat and a warning. He didn't get to pull excuses out of his ass. Being a hunter wasn't a gender or a sexuality. It was a choice. Sam and Dean had chosen to identify with the group, aware of the radicals within it. "Hunters. Not some — _all_ of you."

"Listen, there's bad apples within every community," Dean said.

"Unless you're not human, of course," you commented. "Then everyone's a bad apple." And everyone gets to die pleading for their life, their last moments those of unimaginable terror. That was fair. Yeah, right.

"Is Rowena…?" Sam let the question linger, the implication clear. As much as your heart still ached for Rowena, you appreciated the change of subject. The hunter talk was unnecessary. They had their opinions and you had yours. Neither's were going to change. Like people sharing their faith with radicals, they would insist the bad ones weren't true. They would never admit their community was flawed. It was easier to pretend the villains were an anomaly rather than take their share of responsibility.

You were born a witch. You couldn't change your nature. But hunters could damn well choose their occupation.

"She's gonna be fine," you replied. "She was shot. Iron bullet. Meaning, no magic for a while." Your lip quivered as the memory descended on you, sharp and unforgiving. Strong, tiny hands pushing you aside. A gunshot. Rowena laying in a pool of her own blood. You leaning over her. You shook your head in an attempt to clear your mind. "The bastards had iron bullets!"

Sam's face fell, expressions tight with sympathy. He felt for Rowena. As much as you loathed hunters in this moment, you were sure of that. The two of them hadn't been friends for long, but their shared trauma at Lucifer's hands had been a sure seal to their newfound bond.

"And you?" Sam asked, taking a moment to process what he'd just been told.

You stared at your bloodied hands. "I told you, it's not mine."

If only it had been.

"How are you _feeling?"_ he clarified the question.

"Like I died and went to hell." Even that was an understatement. Sam laid a hand on your shoulder. You flinched, and he instantly removed it. "They won't let me see her." Fresh tears brimmed in your eyes. "I'm her family and they say I'm not. How can they say I'm not?"

"It's the law," Sam explained.

"It's a stupid fucking law."

Neither brother had an objection to that.

"You got a place to stay?" Sam asked.

"I'm not leaving her."

"You need to rest."

"What I need is to be with my girl first thing she wakes up."

"You gonna see her covered in blood?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. Daring you to challenge him.

You wanted to, but you realized he was right. You couldn't let the first thing Rowena saw be you drenched in blood. Blood was the last thing she needed to see — especially her own, glued to your skin and clothes. You needed to take a shower. You needed to change.

Change into what? All your clothes were at home, and you couldn't leave Rowena. And even if you were willing to go on a trip, you couldn't. Your car was still parked in front of the Baudelaire mansion.

"Do you guys have a shirt I could borrow? Please?" you asked quietly, voice almost a whisper. You hated asking them for help, but you had no other options. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Yeah, we'll get you one," Dean said.

"It's no problem," Sam said.

You wanted to smile. Almost did, but you decided against it. It wasn't appropriate at a time like this. You looked up at them again. "Could I ask you guys for a favor?"

They glanced at one another, then at you.

"Sure," Sam said, forehead creasing in a slight frown. "What do you need?"

"Could you go get my car? It-it's still at the…" At the crime scene. The choice of words was too harsh. Too soon. Instead, you said, "The mansion."

There was no way in hell you were ever going back there. You'd rather leave your car there to rot, to be one with nature again in a few years, or towed to a junkyard than go back to that place of horrors. You never wanted to step foot there again.

"Sure, we can do that," Dean said.

"And could you get Rowena's purse? She left it in the bathroom upstairs." When first shots rang, accessories were the last thing on either of your minds.

"The police may have taken it as evidence," Sam told you.

You threw them — or rather, their uniforms — a quick glance. "Can you get it back? Please?"

"We'll try," Dean said with a small nod.

It was as good as you were going to get. "Thank you." You looked them in the eyes as you said it, to let them know you were genuine. You may not have been the biggest fan of hunters right now, but you appreciated what they'd promised to do for you. They had no obligations to help a witch, especially one who'd all but accused them of being the same as mass murderers.

If there was anyone who knew tragedy, it was Sam and Dean Winchester. They understood your devastation, understood that you hadn't meant what you'd said. Had you? You weren't sure. Right now, you weren't sure of anything. The only thing you knew with utmost certainty was that you wanted to see Rowena.

"Do you need anything else?" Sam's words shook you from thoughts of red hair and eyes so, so green. Eyes you couldn't wait to look into again.

You shook your head. You needed Rowena awake and at full strength, but two humans couldn't make that happen. Thanks to the iron that had pierced her abdomen, not even magic would be of use. "Are you gonna stay or?"

Both brothers frowned, confused.

You elaborated, "When you return. Are you gonna stay, or are you going back home?"

They stared for a moment. Blinking. Composing their thoughts.

Dean was the first one to reply, confidence dripping from his tone like venom. "We'll stay."

"Rowena's a friend," Sam said, and Dean nodded, a tad reluctantly. As much as he'd warmed up to your girlfriend, he still wasn't her biggest fan. Still, he trusted his brother. If Sam was alright with her, then so was he. "We want to know she's okay."

You weren't too comfortable with the idea of them staying, but you still gave a nod. There wasn't much you could do about it. You couldn't chase them away. You weren't even sure you wanted to. After all, they'd both given Rowena a second chance. They'd supported her road to redemption, and ever since then, they'd been treating her kindly. They certainly wouldn't harm her — they wouldn't have even back when they could barely stand her — especially after she'd gotten hurt.

"It's my fault," you said.

"What?" Dean asked.

Guilt burned through you like fire, hot and unforgiving. "She got shot because of me."

"No, Y/N, that wasn't your fault," Sam said, tone gentle, friendly, almost brotherly.

"He was aiming for me," you wept. "She pushed me out of the way."

The memory stung. Your heart ached so bad you wanted to claw it out, wanted to tear it into pieces. Anything to stop the pain.

"She saved you because she wanted to. Because she loves you," Sam said.

"Wouldn't you do the same for her?" Dean asked.

"Of course I would!" you fired, no second thoughts. You would have gotten shot for her in a heartbeat.

"Would that be her fault?"

"No." It would be those bastards' fault. Why would—

Oh.

He had you there.

As comprehension slowly dawned on your face, Dean gave a small, barely noticeable smile. "Don't let those sons of bitches off the hook. Everything that happened there is on them."

You allowed yourself a smile of your own, the first one in hours. It was tiny, but it was a start. "Thank you," you whimpered. And you meant it.

"Don't mention it," the elder Winchester said.

You handed Sam your car keys and stared after him and his brother as they left. Once again, you found yourself alone in the spacious, brightly lit waiting room. Sterile smells, typical for a hospital, attacked your nostrils from every corner. A couple nurses walked around, checking on the patients, the clicking of their high heels the only sound breaking the dull, deafening silence. The loneliness clung to you like glue. You could almost feel it on your skin, draped over you like a thin, sticky blanket.

Burying your face in your blood-caked hands, you broke into quiet sobs, clips of Rowena and rivers of thick, gushing red playing over and over in your mind in a never ending loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my editor, OswinTheStrange, and to evilwriter37 and BewitchedQueen for giving me information on medical practices and regulations in USA.


	4. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was named after Taylor Swift's song.

By the time morning came, Sam and Dean had returned with your car and a spare shirt, and Rowena's purse. You washed your hands and face in the bathroom, rubbing and scrubbing at the dried blood with the soap that was left by the sink. It was no match for pricey, flowery-smelling soap Rowena always had you buy, but it did its job. Your goal was to get rid of the blood, not smell like a meadow in spring. Though, you wouldn't have minded a bit of scent.

Splashing cool water on your face helped chase away at least a part of your tiredness. Deep, dark circles framed your eyes, like onyx crescent moons woven into your skin. You hadn't slept in over twenty four hours. You briefly considered putting on some of Rowena's makeup to cover the traitorous giveaways, but decided against it. You were in no mood for beauty treatments.

It was around seven o'clock when the nurse exited Rowena's room and called your name. You were sitting in your chair, the same one you'd occupied last night, cradling Rowena's purse to your chest. It was the closest you'd been to her in hours, her scent still lingering on the fine leather.

You raised your head. "Yes?"

"Miss MacLeod wants to see you."

Like a flip of a switch, your heart skipped a beat. Excitement rushed through you, replacing concern and anxiety that had been plaguing you for the entirety of this impossibly long night. Rowena was awake. And not only that — she wanted to see you. Had there not been witnesses, you might have danced in joy.

You jumped to your feet and rushed to the door that had all but begged you to open it. The room was small and bright. The walls were painted white, the color pristine, clear. Not a single smudge marred the perfection. Rowena lay on the lone bed. On her back, clad in a plain hospital gown, covered by a sheet as white as the walls, and with an IV hooked to her arm, she looked so tiny, so fragile. As if one rough touch — hell, maybe even a wrong look — would shatter her into a thousand pieces.

Rowena's face lit up as you walked in. She gave a small smile, wincing as it pulled at the split in her lip. Bruises marred her face, dark and deep, as if someone had melted and smeared purple and blue crayons over her skin. You wanted to weep at the sight, but you willed yourself together. She was alive, out of mortal danger, and, thanks to the drugs being fed into her bloodstream, felt none of the pain that came with the injuries. Compared to what could have been, a few bruises were nothing.

"Hey," you said, greeting her with a smile.

"You're here," Rowena said. She held her hand out to you. Lowering her purse on one of the chairs, you took her hand. She was as warm as she always was, the touch sending electric sparks through your arm and spreading to the rest of your body, filling you with comfort you weren't even aware you were seeking. You squeezed her fingers, and they squeezed back with incredible strength.

"Didn't think I abandoned you, did you?" you joked. You would rather die than leave her alone when she needed you the most. You weren't Crowley's father. You weren't fake friends and acquaintances that came and went over the centuries. Your love for her was real, and you showed it with actions rather than just words. Words meant nothing without actions to prove them. And you had proven your feelings countless times.

"Who knows?" she teased. Had she not been injured, you would have slapped her arm. You settled for a fake offended glare.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, then added, "Besides the obvious."

"Like hell," Rowena replied. "This bed is uncomfortable. And the smells…" She wrinkled her face in disgust. "They're horrid."

You felt for her. Hospitals were far from luxurious hotel rooms and the home she'd grown accustomed to.

"I know, honey." Brushing her bangs aside, you pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead — the only part of her face that was undamaged. A strain of anger burned through you; anger at the hunters, not just those five individuals, but all of them. You couldn't even kiss your girlfriend properly. You had almost lost her, had almost died yourself, all because you were a witch. It wasn't fair. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

So everyone said. Maybe it wasn't. It didn't stop you from blaming yourself. It was hard to look at things objectively when your girlfriend was hurt, and she'd found herself in harm's way because of your insistence. Emotions were a cold-hearted bitch. They refused to listen to logic.

"I know," you said, even though blame still weighted on you like a travel bag slung over your shoulders, hard and heavy. "I just wish I could do something." Something other than watch her wilt on the hospital bed.

"Take me home," Rowena said.

You stared, surprised. "What?"

"I don't want to be here anymore."

Was she serious? The determination in her eyes told you she was.

"I know, Rowena, I do, but I can't take you home yet." Your voice almost broke, and you put all your strength into saying the words whole.

Rowena looked at you, wide eyes glistening with tears. The green in them glittered like dew-sprinkled leaves in spring, bright, vivid, a tragedy that would have been beautiful had it not been heartbreaking. "Why not?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, a quiet plea.

"You were shot with iron." You hated yourself for saying it out loud, to her face. She flinched at the reminder. "Magic can't help you."

It was one of the first lessons Rowena had taught you. Iron could render a witch's magic useless in the form of binds. But if it pierced their her skin, be it as a knife forged out of it or a bullet coated in it, the magic would disappear for a while. The deeper, more serious the wound, the more time it would take for the magic to return.

Rowena had not only been shot; she had almost bled out. Had the emergency services not showed up on time, she would have died, and it would have been up to you to remove the bullet and wait hours, possibly days for the Resurrection Seal to bring her back. There was no telling how long it would take for her magic to come back. It could take a mere day or two, or a full week, possibly more. Until then, her body was magic proof — not just hidden from her magic, but from others', as well. Your spells or potions couldn't help her. Nothing could help her but good, old-fashioned human medicine.

For the first time in possibly centuries, Rowena was more human than witch.

"I can't take care of you on my own," you continued.

You remembered last year, remembered walking in on charred remains and the stench of burning flesh in the air. Sometimes you could still feel it as if it were back, and the urge to vomit was just as strong as back then. You remembered her body slowly knitting itself together. Remembered her pained screams as her voice returned to her. You couldn't hold her, couldn't kiss her, couldn't even brush a finger against her scorched skin, for even the lightest of touches would only prolong her pain. You couldn't even give her a glass of water, or a potion to lessen the pain. For hours, the only thing you could do was talk to her and assure her you were there.

Like an instinct, your hold on Rowena's hand tightened. You felt as helpless now as you had back then. Your girl was hurting; she needed you and had all but begged you to help her, and you could do nothing but stare. Some girlfriend you were.

"I'll take care of myself," Rowena said, defiant as always.

Usually, that was true. This was one of the few rare times when she could not. "Not in your condition."

"Y/N, please. I can't stay here." A tear slid down her face. She tugged at your linked hands, pulling you closer, like a child seeking comfort. "I promise I'm not going to be a burden. You won't have to bring me food or water, or take care of me, or do anything. I will do everything on my own. I won't bother you. I will even sleep on the couch, if you want. Anything, just please, don't leave me here. Please."

Your heart shattered, and so did the rest of you. How could she think she was a burden? Your lack of medical training may have prevented you from being able to take proper care of her, but you would never, ever consider her a burden. You stayed with her through nightmares and flashbacks. You stayed with her through all her triggers and sudden shifts in moods, through sleepless nights, crying fits, and helpless screams. You couldn't do anything more than tell her you loved her and assure her she was safe, but you remained by her side. And remain by her side you would. You promised her you wouldn't abandon her, and you would make good on it.

"Hey, hey, don't cry, sweetheart. Please, don't cry," you cooed, stroking her forehead with your free hand. "It's okay. You're not a burden, I swear. I just don't have the means to take care of you at home."

"I don't need anything," Rowena said.

If only she didn't. "Maybe not the IV, but you _do_ need the meds."

She shook her head defiantly. "I don't."

"You do. You don't want to hurt, do you?"

"I've hurt worse."

"Never again," you said sternly. You couldn't help her back then. Now, she had access to the best care she could wish for and you weren't going to take it away from her, no matter how much she begged. She could hate you all she wanted. As long as she was safe and far away from pain, you didn't care. A few glares and eye-rolls hurt much less than a sewn up gunshot wound to the abdomen. "You're staying and that's final."

"Y/N, please." Her lips puckered into a pout, cute, adorable. Coupled with her hurt-filled eyes, she looked like a puppy. A scared, wounded puppy who just wanted to go home, wanted to curl up in her own bed where she was safe and miles away from the bloodshed she'd witnessed mere hours earlier. Rowena was a traveler, but she'd grown to love the little house the two of you had settled in. Small and cozy, it was far from luxury she'd gotten used to over the years. Despite its flaws, it was exactly what a home should be — warm, safe, and, most important of all, loving. She had never felt like she didn't belong there.

And she would return; you would see to it. But not yet.

You brought your linked hands to your mouth and kissed her knuckles. You let your lips linger on the skin a tad longer, basking in the soft warmth she radiated with. She was like a furnace in human form, always warm, feeling like home no matter how many miles parted you from it.

"How about this? Stay for a few days, until your magic comes back. Then we'll go home." You didn't want her here anymore than she did. Unfortunately, for as long as her body rejected magic, you couldn't do much for her. It hurt to admit that to yourself. You were used to taking care of her to the best of your ability. You'd been doing so for over a year. This, however, was beyond you. Kind words and tender hugs couldn't soothe physical wounds.

She stared at you for a long moment, contemplating it. "Alright," she finally said, tone weak, defeated. She knew she wasn't going to win this.

You smiled, relieved at finally having won her over.

"But just so you know, I will hate every moment spent in this awful place, " she added. Her pout deepened.

"You'll live." _Thankfully,_ you thought. She was injured and bedridden, but still alive. Compared to what could have been, this was a minor inconvenience.

Rowena snorted like a child just told off by their parent. You wanted to laugh. Bratty Rowena was one of the most adorable things in the world, cuter than baby animals. Your girl had talent. Sometimes you joked that it should be illegal for such an old witch to be that cute, which, in turn, would only make her prolong the act.

"I'll be here with you. You're not gonna be alone," you said. You knew the hospital wasn't the main issue. She was scared of loneliness, of being abandoned by yet another person she'd given her heart to. Centuries of betrayal had left a mark on her soul. She knew you loved her; you'd proven it to her countless times. And you could prove it countless times more. She would still be afraid. Old traumas die hard. You doubted hers ever would.

"I know, dear," Rowena said softly. "I just…"

"I know," you said. She didn't have to explain. You understood. "Sam and Dean are here, too."

Her head perked up. Surprise spilled over her face like paint. "They are?"

You nodded. "They've been here all night."

She snorted, feigning annoyance. "Bloody idiots."

You laughed. She could pretend all she wanted. She couldn't hide the joy that these men who'd hated her up until a few months ago and who she'd hated all the same cared about her enough to spend the night in the hospital waiting room just for her sake. Friendship was still a novelty to her. It had taken her months to get used to yours, and even more to let herself give in to the feelings she'd developed for you. She'd kept her walls up until she was sure you were safe; safe to get close to, safe to trust, safe to love.

Unlike Sam and Dean, she had never tried to kill you and you'd never tried to return the favor. There was never any bad blood between the two of you. But she and Sam shared what she and you never would — trauma at the hands of the Devil, and all the fear and turmoil it brought along. You could listen to her and comfort her, but you would never be able to fully understand what it was like to look at Lucifer's true face and have it plague your every waking moment. Sam, on the other hand, knew exactly what it was like.

As much as you hated her being around the person fated to kill her, you couldn't stop it. You didn't want to stop it. Rowena needed someone who knew exactly what she was going through. It that someone happened to be a hunter with a dangerous fate, so be it. As Sam had said, fate could be changed. Maybe, by bonding, they were changing theirs. One thing was for sure — he wouldn't kill her on purpose. That much you knew with utmost certainty.

"Wanna see the 'bloody idiots?'" you asked, forming mock quotation marks with your fingers as you echoed her words.

"Aye," Rowena replied. She looked down her hospital gown-clad, sheet-covered body, face scrunching in distaste. "It's not like I have much dignity left, anyway."

"That's not true and you know it," you said as you walked to the door. You wanted to argue it further, but you knew there was no use. Rowena believed dignity laid with glamour. Bruised, battered, and plain, she felt like that peasant girl again, the girl she'd used to be all those centuries ago. The girl she'd sworn never to be again. She was a victim of circumstance, of the cruel, merciless world. To survive, she'd had to adjust. She'd had to change. Your kindness could only do so much. It would take a while before she stopped seeing vulnerability as a weakness.

She'd already stopped seeing love as such. It was huge progress for someone like her, and you were immensely proud of her. Because of that, you knew she could do this. All she needed was a bit of time.

Sam and Dean didn't need persuading. As soon as you told them they could come see Rowena if they wanted, they were on their feet and hurrying into the room like students rushing into the classroom at the sound of the bell. Almost as if they were looking forward to seeing her. Maybe they were. You weren't so sure about Dean — you trusted him less than you trusted Sam, her fated killer, and that was saying something — but his brother had definitely been waiting to see her.

Rowena's face lit up at the sight of the two hunters. A small smile spread on her lips; the pull at the split on her lip hurt, but she ignored it for the sake of appearances. She wouldn't allow herself to look any weaker in front of them. Smiles, especially hers, had a way of improving even the worst of situations — aesthetically, at least.

You pulled one of the chairs closer to the bed and sat down. You reclaimed your hold of her hand, taking it into both of yours. You couldn't hug her or kiss her lips. Holding her hand was the closest you could get to her for the time being. You decided to make the best of it.

The brothers and Rowena exchanged greetings. It didn't take long for friendly, playful banter to start. Sassy remarks and sarcasm were basically trademarks of their relationship. Putting the three of them in the same room was basically asking for trouble.

As much as you wanted to be alone with Rowena, you were glad Sam and Dean were here. Rowena was having fun. She was smiling, laughing, joking, thoughts of the bloodshed she'd survived shoved in the furthest corner of her mind. For as long as she was rolling her eyes in mock annoyance and spewing out sarcastic retorts to Dean's comments, she wasn't thinking of what happened. She wasn't thinking of frightened screams, of steps drawing closer, of the door being shoved open. She wasn't thinking of fists slamming into her face. She wasn't thinking of gunshots and bullets and blood. So much blood everywhere.

The smell of metal still lingered in your nose. You shook your head to chase away the thoughts, to send the smell and the memories that had brought it forth to the past where they belonged. There was no more red. No more screaming. No more fear and death. There was only life and a future — yours and Rowena's — and an incentive to make it better than the past. It certainly couldn't be worse.

A yawn escaped your mouth. You clasped a hand over your lips, then took a long, deep breath. More than twenty four hours of no sleep was beginning to catch up to you. You needed caffeine. A cup or two of coffee, and you would be okay. Most likely.

"You should get some sleep," Sam said.

You shook your head stubbornly. "I'm fine."

"If staying up all night is your definition of fine, then sure, you're fine," Dean said sarcastically.

Had Rowena not pushed you out of the way, you could have been shot and lying on this bed instead of her. Or even worse, you could have died. A sleepless night was nothing in comparison to that.

"You haven't slept?" Rowena asked. She shot you a glance full of stern disapproval, like a teacher who'd just walked in on a troublemaking student.

"It's not a big deal." You were a big girl. You could handle missing some sleep.

"It bloody well is a big deal," Rowena said.

You sighed. "I'm fine. Honest. Besides, there isn't really any place for me to sleep here." If only real life hospitals offered visitors spare rooms like those on TV did. Not everyone was okay with leaving their loved ones alone overnight. Maybe more people would like hospitals if family members were allowed to sleep over on something more comfortable than a plastic chair in the waiting room.

"Our motel's right around the corner," Dean said. "They have vacancy."

You scoffed. A motel? No, thank you. "No way. I'm not leaving her." You already couldn't hold Rowena. Holding her hand instead of wrapping her in the safety of your arms was the farthest you were willing to be from her.

"You need sleep," Sam insisted.

"What I need is to be with my girl," you retorted. As if on cue, another yawn tore from your mouth. Okay, maybe you needed sleep, too. Not as much as you needed to be with Rowena, but close.

"Samuel's right, darling," Rowena said before any of you could say anything else. Her expression softened and her wounded lips formed a smile, sincere and genuine.

A pang of pain swirled through your heart. "I'm not leaving you," you said, tone firm, decisive, stubborn. You promised her you would stay, that you wouldn't abandon her, and you had every intention of making good on it. If she could lay in this bad for protecting you, you could stay by her side, sleep be damned. You'd rest once she was released.

"It's just for a few hours," Rowena said. Her other hand fell over yours, fingers softly rubbing its top. "I'll be fine, dear. I promise."

"But—"

"No buts," she interjected. "Go get some rest." Her tone, while gentle, left no room for argument. It was an order, and she fully expected you to follow through.

You sighed in defeat. There was no point arguing her. She was right and she knew it. "Fine," you said after a few heartbeats of silence.

As much as it pained you to admit it, she and the brothers were right. You needed a nice, long shower to wash away the filth of everything that had transpired in the Baudelaire mansion. You needed sleep to relax your mind, to push at least some of the memories further back. You needed a few hours of nothing, of blankless, of undisturbed peace. The hospital, as generous as they were to allow you to spend the night in the waiting room, couldn't offer you any of that.

"Good girl," Rowena said.

You smiled at her, then turned to the brothers. "Can one of you walk me to the motel? I don't wanna get lost."

"I'll do it," Dean volunteered.

Sam nodded. "I'll stay with Rowena." He was looking at you as he said that, face reassuring, comforting. Rowena would be okay, it said. He would stay and make sure of that.

You appreciated the gesture. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Dear, would you bring me a nightgown from the car when you get back, please? This one's a wee bit… itchy," Rowena said. Discomfort joined the disgust on her face. It wasn't easy for her to say something like that in front of an audience. Some things were better left private.

You chuckled. "Sure." You'd almost forgotten about the bags the two of you had packed and left in the trunk, in case you stayed at the mansion for too long and had to spend the night at some hotel on the way home. There wasn't a lot of clothes — a few pairs of pants, shirts, and nightwear — but it would be enough until Rowena got better.

Your lips brushed her forehead, the caress soft, gentle. Then you brought her hands to your mouth and kissed the top of each. Your lips lingered over the warm skin a bit longer for them to be ordinary kisses; they were a promise, a vow that you would return as soon as you could. You knew you would miss her. It was impossible not to. You loved her too much to willingly part from her when she was in need, but you couldn't fight the facts — you needed sleep, and no amount of caffeine could change that.

If Rowena needed you to stay, she would have said so. If there was one thing you could count on, it was her being direct. She never hesitated to call you out when you crossed the line, and she'd grown to trust you enough to tell you when she was in need.

She was okay. The more you repeated it to yourself, the sooner you'd believe it. If only it was that easy. Her wounds had been taken care of, she was on medication, and there were doctors and nurses all around to help if something was to go wrong — which was highly unlikely. Plus, Sam and Dean were here, and as uncomfortable as you were witch hunters being around a witch, they wouldn't hurt her. Unlike the monsters that had shot up the school, the Winchester brothers had honor. They killed when they had to, and fought when in need. They wouldn't harm an injured, powerless witch who they'd grown to like.

"You be a good girl, too, okay?" you said.

"When am I not a good girl?" Rowena asked, feigning offense.

"Want me to pull out receipts?"

She pouted adorably, more for your sake than pretend. She knew how much you liked her pouty face. "Slander. All of it."

"Sure." You laughed. "Love you, bad girl."

"Love you as well, my wee bampot."

You grinned the entire way to the motel, as if the gesture was permanently glued to your mouth. Rowena always had a way of making you feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to my editor, OswinTheStrange, and to evilwriter37 and BewitchedQueen for medical procedures info.


	5. Anytime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after Kelly Clarkson's song.

Days dragged on like an hours-long drama movie; slow paced and boring, with melancholy hanging in the air like fog, thick and heavy enough to be cut with a knife. The doctors and nurses were kind enough. Neither you nor Rowena could complain of their treatment. But not even that was enough to make this gloomy place feel like anything other than a prison. Hospitals were depressing places. There was no changing that. But then, that was their purpose, wasn't it? They existed to help the sick. And with plenty of sick inhabiting them, it was hard to maintain the happy-go-lucky atmosphere.

Not that they should have. What mattered was that they did their job.

Still, it was hard to watch Rowena lay on the hospital bed for days on end. Her wounds were healing nicely. The purple staining her face paled for a few shades, from a deep violet to a dark lilac. Most people couldn't see the difference, but you could. You'd been looking at her long enough to spot all the changes, no matter how miniscule they were. Your girl was getting better.

When day five rolled around, Rowena happily announced that she could feel her magic again. You wanted to hug her. Instead, you settled for a kiss to her knuckles and forehead. A bit of progress didn't make her injuries any less painful. Until her lips and face fully healed, you couldn't kiss her the way you wanted to; nothing aside from the rare few brushes of lips against skin, gentle and controlled, was allowed. As much as you wanted to make out with her, you were going to wait until she wasn't in danger of pain. You were overjoyed, squealing quietly like a fangirl at a convention. You could finally take her home. You could help her cast a healing spell and watch in awe as her wounds closed and the purple of her bruises faded into the cream of her skin.

All that was left to do was convince the doctor she was good to go home. From what you'd been told, Rowena couldn't just walk out of her own volition. The final decision was on the doctor. He could either do as she asked or, if he wasn't convinced she was good to go, deny her release.

You hoped the two of you together could convince him.

That morning, the check-in couldn't come soon enough. Rowena's mouth was wide in a smile, brilliant, cheerful, the kind of smile she'd shoot you every time she'd wake up to you observing her in adoration. You gripped her hand in anticipation, fingers playing with her tiny ones; threading through them and releasing them, circling them, trailing across their warmth. Her nails had grown since the last time she painted them, and tiny patches of polish had peeled off from some of the tips. You hoped she'd paint them red when she returned home. The color suited her much better than peach, a lovely contrast to the paleness of her skin.

The doctor didn't seem as enthusiastic as the two of you. He wanted to keep Rowena in for at least three more days. While she was making a remarkable recovery, he wanted to make sure the wound in her stomach healed properly. A precaution, he explained. Just in case something went wrong.

Both you and Rowena knew nothing would go wrong. Not now that her magic was back.

You couldn't tell him that, though. He had no way of knowing about magic, or understanding it. He didn't know how much better potions and spells were in comparison to human medicine, how much more potent, more powerful. He _couldn't_ know. If either of you brought it up, he'd think you were talking about alternative medicine. He was uncertain now as it was. That would only solidify his decision to keep Rowena in the hospital full term.

"I can take care of her," you said, hoping to persuade him. While you couldn't do anything for her while her body was magicproof, now you were more than capable of helping her out.

The doctor eyed you skeptically. "Have you got any medical training?"

"No."

Doubt in his eyes grew stronger, heavier, like rays of destructive light bursting out of his eye sockets straight into yours, searing into your brain, into the depths of your soul. You swallowed. The pressure weighed on you like a bag full of rocks hanging on your back. You had to get her out of here. You'd made a promise. But how? Short of casting a spell — which would end up boiling the doctor's brain, and that was something you weren't going to do. You weren't desperate enough to commit murder, and the doctor wasn't a threat of any kind. Exactly the opposite, in fact; his reasons for wanting Rowena to stay in the hospital were noble, kind. He didn't deserve to die for doing his job — you were pretty much out of options.

"I've taken care of her before," you said. Truth would set her free. You hoped.

The doctor raised a curious eyebrow. "You have?" He didn't look convinced.

You nodded. "Her ex boyfriend tried to kill her." While Rowena and Lucifer were never together, unless you counted dreams she'd always refused to admit were anything but chaste, she had lusted after him for a while, and he'd taken advantage of her infatuation to manipulate her into helping him. It was close enough. "She didn't go to the hospital."

Rowena's hand tightened around yours. You held on with equal strength. This was for the better. You didn't like bringing Lucifer up any more than she did, but you had no other choice. You had to convince the doctor you were up to the task of taking care of her.

"I nursed her back to health all on my own."

For the first few hours, until the burnt off skin had repaired itself enough to allow you to touch her without causing her any pain, all you could do was talk to her. Then, when she'd finally healed enough, you'd made her potions to help ease the pain and held her until they took effect. She was in shock for days. Physically, she'd healed within the course of one day. Mental damage had been harder to repair. Even today, over a year since then, some of the wounds on her soul remained open and painful.

The first few days following the incident were the hardest. She'd barely moved from the bed she'd curled up on, barely said a single word. She'd only eat after you begged her, more for your peace of mind than hers, and even then, she'd only take a few bites. Nightmares plagued her dreams every single night. She'd spend hours curled up in your arms, safe and protected and wide awake, eyes glued to the opposite wall, tears drenching her cheeks.

You hadn't slept normally for months, busy with soothing Rowena after nightmares upon nightmares and staying up to reassure her that she was safe. If that wasn't proof enough that you were more than capable of taking care of her, you didn't know what was.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the doctor said, tone sympathetic.

Rowena lowered her head, avoiding his eyes. "It was a long time ago." She looked up at you, then turned back to the doctor. "Y/N took excellent care of me, and I have no doubt she will do so again."

"I could release you to Miss Y/L/N's care, Miss MacLeod," he said after a few moments of contemplation. "If that's what you want."

"I do," Rowena said with a nod.

"We both do," you said.

"But you'll need to sign some papers," the doctor added. "If you do that, Miss Y/L/N will be responsible for you, and she will also be in charge of all medical decisions pertaining to your treatment."

"What, I'll be like her guardian?" you asked.

He nodded. "Sort of. Miss MacLeod won't be able to make any medical decisions without your consent. You, in turn, will be responsible for her wellbeing outside the hospital."

"I'll do it," Rowena said, without a moment's hesitation.

"You're sure?"

"Aye."

The doctor turned to you. "Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yeah." It was nothing you hadn't done before.

And that was that. A few signatures, some papers with prescriptions Rowena wouldn't need, and stern instructions to keep her on bed rest as much as possible, and she was free to go. While you went to pack the few belongings you'd had in your bag from the motel and drive up to the hospital (there was no way in hell you were letting Rowena walk too much, not even around the corner), Sam and Dean kept her company.

Rowena was fully dressed by the time you'd returned. Her shirt was black and strapped, exposing thin, muscular arms sprinkled with freckles, like stars on a cloudless sky. An elegant red skirt and black pumps — the only part of the outfit she'd worn to the mansion left, the blouse and pants too soaked in blood to be salvaged — completed the look. Sitting on the bed she'd spent days laying on, she looked almost healthy. Almost, for not even makeup could hide the bruises staining her face.

As soon as you assured her you were good to go, Rowena pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her purse and slid them on. They couldn't hide all the damage, but the worst of it, consisting of bruises around her eyes and a cut high on her cheek, was well tucked behind the black shades, invisible to the world. Hopefully, you would arrive home before anyone noticed. You doubted you'd get friendly looks if people saw you next to your girlfriend, who was hiding bruises with sunglasses. You would consider yourself lucky if  nasty stares were all you would get. Not many people would be willing to believe she'd been beaten up by a hunter you'd ended up killing to protect her. You had fists, and you dated her. All the ingredients were there. Lucky you.

Sam and Dean walked you to your car, your arm wrapped around Rowena's waist the entire way there, despite her many protests. Her magic may have been back, but she was only five days into her recovery and was wearing high heels. You weren't going to risk her falling and getting hurt worse. The two of you said goodbye to the brothers and had promised to let them know if you needed anything, and then you were on the road.

Driving away from the hospital felt freeing, and when you passed the sign alerting you you were leaving the town, invisible weight lifted off your shoulders, as if a bag filled with rocks had been thrown off your back and tossed into acid to be dissolved. The town of carnage, of death and blood and terrified screams that would haunt you in nightmares for months to come, was behind you. You never had to step foot there again. You glanced at the thick, deep forest in the rearview window. The green was slowly disappearing behind a cloud of white, shrinking in the ever-growing distance, almost as if it had never existed. If only it hadn't.

Only once you were far enough away that you couldn't see even a trace of that horrible place did you allow yourself to release a breath you'd been holding, relief flooding your veins like a sedative, soothing, comforting. It was over. The horror that had happened was finally behind you, both literally and metaphorically. You were free.

"Are you alright, dear?" Rowena asked, shaking you from your thoughts.

"Yeah." It wasn't even a lie. You were alright. How alright, you weren't sure, but alright nonetheless. You allowed yourself a small smile. "Just glad to be away from that place."

"Tell me about it. I don't ever want to go back there again," she said.

"Yeah, me, neither." You threw her a glance, smile fading at the sight of bruises peeking out underneath her sunglasses. The purple looked even darker in the shade, as if someone had smudged paint over her face. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't traigc. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Aye," Rowena said.

She looked it, too, but you knew better than to take her on her word. As much as she loved attention, Rowena had a tendency of downplaying her pain. You hovering over her like a worried mother hen wasn't the kind of attention she was fond of. Pain was a weakness, and showing it — or rather its full extent — made her weak. And she wasn't weak. She would never be weak again. She was growing more comfortable of letting you in when she was in need, but there were still times when she hid herself away and suffered in silence, away from prying eyes. Away from you.

You gave her a quick look over and were satisfied to find no discomfort. She was comfortable in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Sunglasses hung over her face like a visor in a science fiction movie, as if beams of hot, searing energy would shoot out of her eyes had they not been hidden, destroying everything in their path. You'd have preferred it to her face being battered. That soft, milky skin didn't deserve to be tarnished by violence.

"Should we stop at any hotels?" you asked. You were hours away from home, and Rowena had just been released from the hospital earlier than intended. You wouldn't blame her if she wanted to find a room at some random hotel for the rest of the day and continue your journey home tomorrow.

Rowena shook her head. "I want to heal myself as soon as possible." Which she couldn't anywhere but home, where'd left all the magical supplies. "And I'd rather not be seen like this by anyone else," she added, motioning to her face.

She had a point there. "Especially with me." She tilted her head to look at you, and you quickly elaborated, "People might think I'm abusing you."

"Why would they think that?"

"We're dating, and you're hiding bruises with sunnies." You shrugged. If the shoe fits…

Rowena snorted. "If anyone as much as looks at you wrong, they will regret it," she said, voice suddenly serious, threat seeping out of every word. You had no doubt she meant it. Protective Rowena was a force to be reckoned with.

Warmth filled your heart at her words. Then unpleasant memories came rushing, and it took all your strength to hold back the tears prickling at your eyes. Blood. A gunshot. More blood. Rowena collapsing like a doll whose strings had been cut. Even more blood. Blood everywhere. Dark, sticky, red. So much red. So much blood.

"Don't ever do that again," you said, swallowing a lump that had formed in your throat. Eyes on the road, and everything would be okay. No more red.

"What?" Rowena asked.

"Risk your life for me."

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

"Those could've been witch-killing bullets," you said.

"But they weren't," she said.

"You didn't know what they were."

She lowered her sunglasses and looked you in the eyes, stare deep, piercing. "I didn't care what they were," she said, and you could tell she was honest. Those beautiful forest greens made sure to tell you what even her words couldn't. "Even if I knew they were the witch-killing kind, I would've done the same thing."

"Damn it, Rowena!" you exclaimed, palms slamming into the steering wheel.

"I would do anything for you, Y/N. Anything," she told you, with her eyes as well as mouth.

A part of you missed the selfish, heartless bitch she was when you'd first met her. That Rowena didn't care much about you, but she'd cared about herself. She'd put herself first. She'd lived for herself, and for no one else.

"I can't lose you," you said. She was the only family you had left. If she was to die… You didn't even want to think about it.

"I can't lose you, either," Rowena said. Sadness spilled over her face like water. "You're young. You have a whole life ahead of you. Whilst I've lived for centuries, and most of them I've wasted."

"No." You shook your head. "You have a life, too."

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "Wouldn't you do the same for me?"

"You know I would!" you fired without hesitation. You would do anything for her.

"How is that any different?"

"It just is," you said.

She huffed. "Better me than you."

"No."

"Yes," she countered. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Which was why you didn't want her doing stupid things. That was your job. But then, she was probably thinking the same. _Damn it!_

"One of these days, one of us is going to do something stupid," Rowena said, tone a tad lighter.

"One of us already did," you pointed out.

She chuckled. "Fair point. I don't regret it, though."

"I wouldn't, either." It was hard to stay mad at her when you would have done the same thing for her.

"Good god." Her face suddenly twisted with disgust, as if she had smelled something foul. "We've turned into the Winchesters," she said with stark realization.

Pep talks, martyrdom, and melodrama. Sounded about right. You chuckled. "Only with less heroism and more codependency," you joked.

"We need to stop spending so much time with them."

"I've been telling you that for months and you won't listen."

The two of you exchanged glances. You stared at each other for a few moments, then burst into joint laughter, breaking the monotonous silence. Codependent — why not? You were each other's only family. The bond you shared was deeper than love, thicker than blood. What the two of you had wasn't just a relationship. It was devotion, a love like no other, a force stronger than magic coursing through your veins.

You weren't just lovers.

You were soul mates.

* * *

The house was dark and cold, exactly the way you'd left it almost a week ago. The first thing you did, after making sure Rowena was settled nice and comfortable on the couch, was check the warding on the premises. You doubted anyone had been fiddling with it while you were away — after all, most of your and Rowena's enemies were dead — but you wanted to be sure your home was safe from supernatural threats. A witch can never let her guard down. The Baudelaire mansion massacre was proof of that.

When you returned to the living room, happy to find everything in order, you found Rowena barefoot, shoes kicked aside, pushing furniture to the wall. She moaned as the coffee table finally slid to the corner, then doubled over. She brought a hand to her stomach, her other hand gripping the armrests of the couch for support.

"What are you doing?" you asked, concern that flooded your veins leaking into your tone.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" she said. A rhetorical question. Then she answered you, "I'm preparing for the spell."

"Oh, no, you're not," you said sternly. Not in this condition.

You were at her side in an instant, arms around her, helping her sit back down. She usually fought you, but this time she made no protests, not even in the form of huffs and glares. She knew she couldn't win. She needed help. As better as she felt, she was far from perfect health.

"Stay," you ordered. "I'll prepare for the spell. You sit there like a good girl."

"I'm not made of glass," Rowena said. It had become a catchphrase at this point, her go-to defense line whenever she was hurt and you told her she couldn't do something.

"You're hurt. I don't want you straining yourself."

You gathered the necessary supplies — candles and various herbs and powders — and lowered them on a small heap in the cleared space. You picked up the candles and started setting them around in a circle.

"I'm not a child, Y/N," Rowena said with no real defiance. She was watching you, eyes glimmering with something that looked suspiciously like gratitude. She would have asked for help, of course, but only once she was on the floor and screaming in pain. Otherwise, she would have kept going. As much as she prided herself in her independence, she appreciated you taking the lead when you noticed she couldn't anymore. She would never say it out loud; she was too proud for that. But she would show it, be it with kisses or simple glances.

Appreciation, though, didn't stop her from complaining. Got to keep up the pretense, you guessed. She was a strong, independent witch — had been so for centuries — and she didn't need no help. Yeah, right.

For someone who claimed not to be a child, she was sure pouting like one. You resisted the urge to melt. Mustn't fall for the cuteness.

"Then stop acting like one," you told her.

"Am not."

"Are, too."

Two could play this game.

"Meanie," she accused, pouting harder.

"Stop being cute," you said.

She gave a small chuckle. "It's impossible, dear."

You shrugged. "Worth a try."

"Pfft." She huffed. "Rude."

You grinned. "You know it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you can be obnoxious from time to time?"

"I learned from the best," you retorted. "You didn't just teach me magic, Rowena."

Rowena clasped a hand over her heart dramatically, like an actress amidst an intense theater act. "That hurt." The drama in her appearance matched the one in her tone. Good thing you hadn't picked up her lying skills — or lack thereof. Her inability to sell a believable lie was her only flaw. You hoped the cops believed her story, which was a word-for-word repetition of yours. You'd made sure to fill her in on what you'd told them so your stories would match. After all, she wasn't always dramatic while lying. She could be serious. Sometimes.

"Sue me," you said.

"Maybe I should. Cruelty to the sick… I imagine the good officers of the law would frown upon that sort of thing," she said.

You laughed. Rowena laughed along. You missed this; missed the banter, the sweet smell of Rowena's scented candles in the air, the almost overwhelming feeling of safety that came with these familiar, warded walls. You missed your everyday life.

To think you'd almost lost it all in the span of a single night…

"Ready?" you asked as you mumbled a spell and the wicks of all the candles came to life in unison. The tiny flames danced as if they were choreographed, yellows and oranges twisting and turning around like fiery ballerinas.

"Aye," Rowena beamed, eager, happy. That, in turn, made your grin widen. A few more minutes, and she would be healed. Finally, she would be free of the pain that had been plaguing her for almost a week.

You offered her a hand for support. Instead of taking it, she shot you a glare. It was more playful than serious, no actual malice — or even annoyance — present. She was Rowena MacLeod, one of the most powerful witches alive. She could walk a few feet without assistance. The injury had, after all, almost healed.

Getting to her feet, Rowena padded to the circle. She stepped inside it, then slowly knelt down, careful not to brush against a candle. She took a handful of the powders in one hand, and in her other she grabbed the various herbs laying beside the circle. Words of magic fell from her lips, quiet, steady, the Latin rolling off her tongue with ease, as if it were her native language. She'd had centuries to perfect it. You hoped to one day be as good at it as she was.

Rowena laid the herbs and powder before her, forming a greenish-brown mound in the small space between her knees and the candles. The chanting grew louder, more confident. Her voice strengthened with each word; what started out as whispering had turned into a strong monologue, a speech, as if she were a cult leader feeding her followers nonsense that the confidence in her tone had managed to make appealing, desirable. She was calling on the magic in her blood, calling on the nature whose forces she'd served, willing it to aid her, serve her, bring her release from the pain. Unlike that of a cult leader, her power was real. What she promised, she could make true. What she ordered, she could bend to her will. What she wanted, she could get.

She wanted healing.

And healing she got.

You watched in awe as the purple on Rowena's face started fading. The dark plum melted into gentle violet, which lightened into soft lilac, as if someone had added water to the watercolors spilled over her face. Shade by diluted shade, the rich color vanished. Following its lead, the cut under her eye and the split in her lip closed. The skin that had mere moments ago been fractured and marred with darkness was back to its milky, porcelain glory, as if it had never been tarnished. As if no fists had ever pounded on it.

With the final incantation leaving Rowena's lips, the candles died down in unison, like a choir finishing its song. Rowena closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, relishing the moment. After almost a week, the pain was gone. She was free.

"Rowena?" you said, walking over to her. "You okay?"

She opened her eyes and looked up at you. The greens shone like emeralds, happy, relieved, as bright as forests in spring. A matching smile broke on her mouth, wide and beautiful.

"Never better," she replied.

She got up, and you ran to her, kicking the candles aside on your way over. You wrapped your arms around her and held her against you with all the strength you could muster. You'd forgotten the last time you held her this tight. It seemed like an eternity ago.

Rowena chuckled and returned the hug, just as tight. "Somebody's impatient," she teased.

"Like you didn't miss this," you retorted.

"Not saying I didn't."

You knew as much.

"Let me look at you." You stepped back from the hug and brought your hands to her cheeks. Her skin was warm under your touch, as smooth as you remembered it. Freckles were scattered over her face like grains of sand, mere shades darker than the milkiness of of her skin. You missed this; missed touching her face, missed feeling its softness under your fingertips. Missed being this close to her without fear of hurting her. "God, you're beautiful."

"You sound surprised," she teased.

You chuckled. Then your face fell. "I missed this," you admitted.

"Me, too, Y/N," Rowena said. She sounded wistful.

"Be mine tonight?"

"Only if you're mine tomorrow," she retorted, playfulness dripping from her tone.

"I'm all yours," you agreed with a nod, shivers of anticipation slithering down your spine. Your body trembled with desire, cravings growing by the second; cravings for her butterfly kisses marking you, for her fingers curling inside of you. You needed her just as you needed to breathe — if not more. You weren't sure if you could survive another minute away from her.

"Then I'm yours tonight."

Just as she said that, your lips crashed into hers in a rough, bruising kiss. She kissed back just as fiercely, her mouth fire burning away at your insides and settling in low in your core, setting you alight. Your nerves tingled like sparks of electricity, wild and unpredictable. Everything you'd been holding back for almost a week spilled into the kiss, all the pain and need and desire coiling like a hurricane at the tip of your tongue, fighting to break free.

You shoved Rowena against the wall, hard. She barely had time to take a breath before your mouth claimed hers once again. You tangled a hand in her hair, fingers threading through the silky locks. She didn't try to fight you. She relaxed and let you lead, let you do with her as you pleased. Tonight, she was yours. Yours to break, yours to control, yours to use any way you saw fit.

Tonight, and until the end of time.

Just as you were hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to my lovely editor OswinTheStrange, and evilwriter37 and BewitchedQueen for info. I'm aware the hospital release scene is unrealistic. I made it that way for the sake of plot.


End file.
